


Anthem

by Morphiina



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biker Geralt, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical idiots, Comedy, Dramatic Jaskier, Drug Mentions, Eventual Smut, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Guns, M/M, Mild mentions/hints of past trauma, Mild torture, Occasional angst, Roach is a motorcycle, Slow Burn, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 65,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22616023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morphiina/pseuds/Morphiina
Summary: Jaskier’s career as a solo indie musician and songwriter hasn’t exactly... taken off. He’s got a tiny fanbase, and he’s got talent, but nothing that gives him enough of an edge to strongarm his way through to the front of such a competitive field. He just hasn’t found his muse, he likes to tell himself as he sweeps the floor of his day job.But all that changes in an instant one night, when a close encounter with death throws him into a world of myth and magic. An encounter that brings him face to face with monsters from his wildest nightmares... and a grumpy, tech-incompetent, devilishly handsome biker, wading in the blood of creatures that Jaskier never knew existed.Maybe, in the strangest way possible, Jaskier has finally found his muse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 195
Kudos: 383





	1. Werewolf Stew

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is primarily based on the Netflix series, and that I have limited experience with other Witcher media thus far :)

The thrilled roaring of the crowd slowly trickled to a hush as darkness filled the stadium, a single spotlight slowly brightening, illuminating the fog gently billowing across the stage. At the center, a dark shape sat elegantly upon a stool, the silhouette of a guitar draped across the figure’s lap. The figure’s features slowly began to take shape under the velvet blue light, the pale fingers began to strum daintily across the strings. The sound of soft skin sweeping across ribbed wire, the notes echoing out into the air. 

A clear, soft voice drifted gently out through the grand stadium, mournful and melodic, almost a whisper. “ _I remember the time, we last shared a smile. Under_ _the_ _lavender sky, the fields rolling for miles._ _Morning_ _sun_ _in_ _your_ _eyes_ _, let’s just stay here for a while..._ ” 

The lights burst out as the beat took a hard hit, soft lavender and warm orange glow filling the stadium, and the face of the man on stage was revealed. Slight and handsome, his smiling face was radiant, his bright blue eyes shining. “ _As the clouds roam on, up and over the mountains, the roads you’ve seen, they number the thousands. While here I stand, here on my hilltop. Rooted in place, a rigid old tree; just wishing for the day, the day you’ll pass on over me_.” 

The crowd erupted once again. Adoring fans trying to contain their excited shrieks, the blue lights glittering in the eyes of those desperately trying to get the singer to look at them. Arms thrown in the air, many singing along. It’s everyone’s favorite, there isn’t a soul here that doesn’t know the words by heart. As the song went on, the singer got up from his stool, the power of the song moving him about the stage, his guitar strapped firmly to his body as he strummed it hard, the notes blasting out into the cavernous arena. As the song drifted down to the calm from where it began, he sank to his knees, voice soft. 

“ _But it’ll_ _never matter how bright_ _we burn_ ,” The singer let go, letting his body drift down, he lay on his back. The lights dazzling above him, his voice soulful and quiet again. “ _I’m grounded here, it’s_ _just_ _something I’ve learned. But for you, my dear, the world_ _won’t_ _stop_ _turn_ -... no, on the world turns? No, no. For the... hm. For the vast world you... yearn? No, that’s even worse, god that’s bad-” 

“The fuck are you doing, kid?” 

Jaskier was startled out of his daydream by the gruff voice. He blinked and turned his head from where he lay back on the table to glance at its origin. It was his manager, Jim, with his bald head and cliché biker beard, standing at the bar with his arms crossed. An older man with tattoos and an intimidating look to him, but he had the heart of a teddy bear. Even if, sometimes, he tended to vaguely threaten with the aura of a less cuddly form of bear. Primarily towards misbehaving patrons of the bar, or Jaskier when he’d fucked something up. 

Jaskier blinked down at the broom he was currently holding in his arms like a guitar, then back up at his manager. “Sweeping! The... tables!” He hurriedly pushed himself up into a sitting position and jumped down from the table, planting the broom on the ground and leaning against it casually. 

Jim let out an exasperated sigh. “You been gulping the leftover drinks again, haven’t you?” 

“Of _course_ not!” Jaskier tilted his head, doing his best to pull off an offended expression, one hand on his hip. He liked to consider himself quite the expressive actor. “I’ll have you know, Anna started that lie to defame me.” 

“Have you done _any_ cleaning yet?” The man scowled, glancing around at the various spills and leftover glasses on many of the tables visible in the dim, orange light. The bar was silent, and Jaskier realized that the pair of them were the only ones left in the building. Not that it was a real worry, but it crossed Jaskier’s mind that if his manager had finally exhausted all patience and decided to strangle him, there would be no one to help. Hell, even if anyone were here, they’d probably just cheer the man on, to be honest. 

“I ah... shined the barstools?” 

“It’s 2:30am, Pankratz. I’m going home, and you’re not leaving until this entire _place_ is shining.” With an annoyed tone, Jim threw a bundle of keys at Jaskier, and they hit him hard in the chest as he scrambled to catch them. The broom dropped to the floor with a loud clack that made him flinch. “If you forget to lock up again, you can consider yourself fired _and_ blacklisted.” 

Jaskier felt the color drain from his face and he held his hands up, the keys jangling loudly as he flung them around in his gesturing, “No, no no no, please, you’re the only bar that lets me play at peak hour!” 

“My soft spot for lost little fuck-ups only goes so far, Pankratz.” Jim grunted, turning away and making for the door, bringing his hands up to fasten a bandana around his bald head. “If you wanna be done in time to get any sleep for your shift later, I suggest you get cracking. And don’t even think about calling in.” And with that, the large man was gone into the darkness. 

Jaskier let out a long, stress-filled breath and leaned back against the table, head dropping. He barely registered the sound of the motorcycle outside, revving up before taking off into the night, leaving the place completely silent. He reached out and grabbed the mostly-empty glass on the dirty table next to him and took a swig of the remaining gin, dearly hoping the original owner didn’t have herpes or something, and grimaced at the bite of the now-warm liquid. It only served to remind him of the further cleaning he had ahead of him. Nothing tasted more like Pine Sol than warm gin. 

Eventually, he picked up the broom and started sweeping for real this time. He felt that usual pit of despair in his stomach when he began grueling manual labor. Frankly, he wasn’t cut out for it, and he dreaded the idea of being stuck with basic jobs like this for the rest of his life. Jaskier was an artist, not a laborer. 

Since he was a child, he’d dreamed of being a singer, and a writer. Like many, he dreamed of the big time. Of fame and glory and multitudes fawning over his clever, beautiful words. Of moving the greatest of minds with his poetry and philosophy. Of luxury and ease. Of men and women throwing themselves at him, lusting after him. Of sitting beside the greatest- 

Yet here he was, a busboy at a dive bar, sweeping the floors at the earliest hours of the morning. He was a good writer, honestly. He had a bit of a following. Some people bought his albums, he had regulars at his gigs, a couple hundred followers on social media. He often went home with someone who had a soft spot for a pensive songwriter with pretty blue eyes. 

But the music industry is as competitive a field as any other marketable art. And frankly, Jaskier hadn’t come up with any new ideas to differentiate himself from every other guitar-wielding indie singer out there. All the sounds were the same, the subjects the same. 99% of artists sing about love, but what else is there to sing about? Jaskier was a lover, and a romantic, what else could he write about that he had so much connection with? 

He always told himself, ‘I just need to find my muse’. Just needed to find something to make him different from the rest. Then it was all record deals and flowing money from there. 

“So where the hell does one find a muse that isn’t in the form of an ex or a current lover?” Jaskier sighed to himself. 

It was nearly 4am by the time Jaskier, beyond exhausted and rather more than buzzed from all the leftover alcohol, stepped out of the bar, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He went a few paces before his distracted, liquor-addled mind remembered his manager’s threat, and quickly turned back to fumble with the locks. After triple checking them, he deposited the keys in the one-way lockbox and started down the street. 

One might not immediately guess based on his city-boy demeanor, but Jaskier had, in fact, been raised in a rural area for most of his childhood. Although he moved to the urban jungle for college, his lungs always yearned for fresh air, his eyes for greenery and flowers. His appreciation for nature was the foundation of his poetry, something he drew on often when writing. So naturally, he often opted to take the route through the park on his way home, when he could. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed in the night air as he walked the memorized path. The city stench wasn’t nearly as prevalent here, the fresh green scent of trees embracing him. The park was empty and silent this time of night; generally barely illuminated by the rare street lamp, but tonight was a full moon and Jaskier had no issue seeing where he was going. His mind was a stream, flowing through memories of past lovers, philosophical thoughts, inspiring experiences, and poetic adjectives. Letting the fresh air and scents fuel his thoughts and turn them into music. 

All of a sudden, the silent night and Jaskier’s stream of thoughts were interrupted by a loud rustling in the bushes, like a record stop. He halted in place, frozen, instantly alert. He stared in the direction of the noise as it began again. There was no way it was a squirrel; squirrels could make a lot of racket, but Jaskier knew the difference. Was there a person lurking in the woods? Should he call out? No, that was what stupid people in TV did when they were about to get murdered. Should he stay quiet and hope they don’t notice him? Had they noticed him already? 

Jaskier swallowed, eyes wide, dread rising in his veins; and began backing away as silently as he could manage, keeping his eye on the tree line. Heart thudding fast, muscles tense, ready to run. He was making progress, until he stepped on a stick. The sickening snap struck through the silence like a stab to the heart. Jaskier froze. 

The rustling stopped. 

A dark shape began to rise from the bushes, barely illuminated by the full moon. And it kept rising. Rising, and rising, until the figure stood twice as tall as Jaskier, perhaps more. The moonlight bled over its shaggy form and glinted on its teeth. Black eyes glittered, that dull green reflection that indicated night vision. Jaskier couldn’t move, paralyzed by terror as he stared up at the creature, eyes so wide they were about to pop out. What was a fucking _bear_ doing in the middle of the city? 

And then it snarled. 

“Wait. Bears don’t snarl-?” The terror of the moment temporarily evaded Jaskier as he pondered that. 

The beast launched itself powerfully into the air. Straight towards Jaskier. The man barely had a moment to let out a terrified yelp and begin to break into a run when all the force of the leap and the weight of the creature smashed into him like a hairy car. His back hit the ground with an explosion of pain, all the air burst out of his lungs. He was crushed by an immense weight, pinning his body to the dirt path. A snarl erupted in his face, and he tried to cry out, but he couldn’t breathe, and his mouth was full of acrid fur and dirt. His heart was racing as he tried to thrash, to fight his way out. His eyes were squeezed shut, and dizziness overcame him; that adrenaline panic you feel when it hits you that you’re about to die. A sharp, burning sensation was filling his chest, the smell of copper hit his nose. 

“Hey!” A deep, gruff voice shouted, and suddenly the weight was lifted from his body as something hit the massive beast with a powerful impact, and it was flung from its feet. Jaskier, beyond dazed, stared up at the faint stars in the sky, now visible without the wall of fur in his face. He took in a shuddering breath, chilly air finally filling his lungs. 

He didn’t have a chance to recover, however, as he was suddenly grabbed by the shirt and hoisted up into the air. “On your feet!” That same gruff, English-accented voice snarled in his ear, and a wide-eyed Jaskier dazedly looked up at his rescuer. A mountain of a man, all muscle and black leather. Flowing white hair, a sharp, wolfish face, and startlingly golden eyes. 

And goddamn was he _beautiful_. Like some cover magazine had been thrown in his face. Jaskier was absolutely starstruck, momentarily forgetting the peril he was in. His half-drunk, half-in-shock brain was about to comment something on that when the man strongly shoved him away just in time for the beast to come at them again, having recovered from the initial blow. Jaskier fell back on his ass, and the beast was on top of his savior. Both the beast and the man fell back, the beast launching its teeth and claws at him. Jaskier scoot backwards until his back hit a tree, watching in terror as he expected to see a mauling. But, incredibly, the man held off the beast’s ripping teeth with his strong hands. When the beast roared angrily in his face, the man snarled back. Absolutely fearless in the face of such viciousness. Almost more of a beast than the beast itself. 

Suddenly, a sharp, metal object erupted from the beast’s back. It drew in a gargling, choked breath, blood spurting out from its fanged mouth, splattering in the white-haired man’s face. The man grunted as he shoved the hairy body off of himself, and Jaskier watched in horror as it lay limp on the ground, twitching. The white-haired man got to his feet, wiping the blood from his face with his hand before reaching out and pulling the sword from the beast’s carcass with a sickening rip. 

As the man straightened out his back, and began flicking the blood from the sword, Jaskier glanced back down at the beast. Its body was strangely humanoid in figure, and muscular, but its head was clearly that of a canine; triangular ears atop and long snout. Gray, patchy fur covered its body, and massive, tearing claws extended out from all digits. Though he was addled with alcohol, sleep deprivation and terror, the bright illumination of the full moon made something click in his head. 

“Is that- is that a- that's a-” Jaskier planted a hand on his own cheek, eyes wide. His voice was hoarse. “That’s a werewolf.” 

“Brilliant observation.” The white-haired man grunted, not bothering to look at him. 

“That’s a _werewolf_!” Jaskier gestured frantically, voice going up an octave and cracking. 

The man rolled his eyes and tossed Jaskier a glance, his face and hair streaked with wolf blood. Then, suddenly, his golden eyes widened, expression turning serious, and looked more closely at the smaller man. 

Jaskier blinked back at him, then followed his gaze down to his shirt. He froze when he realized the pale green fabric was rather shredded, and blooming dark red. “Oh- god, what is-” 

The white-haired man dropped his sword and ran to Jaskier, dropping to his knees in front of him. Those strong hands grabbed his torn shirt and ripped it away from his body like it was nothing. “Fuck.” The man grunted. Beneath the shirt revealed four massive, deep gauges in Jaskier’s chest, running from his shoulder slantways down to the opposite ribs. They were angry, jagged and red, bits of torn flesh everywhere, and absolutely _gushing_ blood the color of a deep wine. 

Jaskier took a deep, shuddering breath as he stared down at this sight. He hadn’t felt it with all that adrenaline and shock, but now the sharp, stinging throb was starting to cut through the numbness. 

“Oh.” Was all Jaskier said. With that, the lights in the darkness began to swirl, the sounds of the night faded into a loud ringing, and the world went black. 

\-- 

Geralt shoved his sword into its hidden compartment on his motorcycle with one hand, the other securing the deadweight body currently draped over his shoulder. He tossed the torn bag that he’d picked up from the ground, assuming it was the victim's, into the storage compartment before moving to sling the unconscious man off his shoulder, placing him on the bike gingerly. The man’s head lolled and his eyes fluttered, but he remained sagging, propped up only by Geralt’s strong grip on his shoulder. Geralt had tied a cloth tightly around the man’s chest to buy him some time, but the cloth was already soaked and dripping blood. 

Geralt sighed exasperatedly as he mounted the bike just behind the man, one arm around his torso to keep him in place, and turned the key to start the vehicle. Wasn’t the most comfortable position, considering the crotch rocket wasn’t exactly built for two people riding this way. His nose was filled with the scent of alcohol, blood and sweat. The closest safe house was several miles away, on the outskirts of the city. This was going to be a rough journey. 

“Just don’t fucking die.” Geralt grunted into the unconscious man’s ear, revving the engine and rolled forward before taking off. He was already in a bad mood, considering he’d barely had the time to rip out a single fang before he haphazardly hid the body of the werewolf in the bushes. So much for harvesting useful parts for selling. The fang might not even be enough to assure the client of his kill. All those days of hunting, essentially wasted. All because a pasty, drunk twink decided to stumble into his quarry’s claws and get himself nearly killed. May yet still get himself killed. 

Maybe if he could get the man to a healer quick enough, he would be able to get back to the park before the morning joggers. Bundle up the body before anyone can take a good look at it. Anyone asks, he tells them a dog died, he’s just on cleanup. 

He sped down the dark, moonlit road, wind whipping past his ears. He sighed, trying to quell his annoyance. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, in all honesty. As much as he’d like to think it was nothing more than an inconvenience, Geralt... _needed_ to save this man. 

Geralt was a Witcher. He did what he did for coin, and that was all. Not for glory, not for heroism, not for pride. Witchers didn’t feel things like that. Or, so people say. Geralt wasn’t going to try to convince anyone otherwise. 

But deep down, if he was being entirely honest with himself; something he isn’t often; he felt a certain warmth in his chest when the work he did resulted in someone being alive. When he cured someone of a curse rather than kill the monster they became; that felt so much... _better_. Hell, he certainly would have preferred to cure tonight’s werewolf had it been an option. 

But for now, he would have to settle on the feverishly babbling, unconscious idiot currently bleeding out in his arms. 

He’d better not fucking die. 

\-- 

Jaskier roused to sunlight warming his eyelids and a deep, throbbing pain wracking his body. It burned in his chest and ached in his limbs. He groaned, eyes squeezed shut, and brought up a hand to press to his face. How much had he drunk last night? It felt like he’d replaced all of his blood with bourbon. He really hoped he had some Zantac left. 

He reached out to his side table for his phone, but his hand groped nothing but air. He blinked his eyes open, frowning, and glanced over. It took several moments of bleary-eyed staring, but eventually he realized; he wasn’t in his room. In fact, he wasn’t in any room he’d ever been in before. 

It was a fairly large room, dimly-lit aside the sunlight streaming in through the two windows. A second cot, as worn-looking as the one Jaskier lay in, was pressed against the opposite wall, and a wooden chair between both. A very long, wooden table stretched out at the far end of the room, and behind it was a door. The walls were lined with horrific-looking metal tools, dried herbs and strange, sigil-covered posters, many with illustrations of frightening beasts. There were shelves upon shelves lined with books with old-looking leather covers, and any shelf that didn’t have books on it held jars of strange-looking substances and... organs? 

“...ooookay.” Jaskier gulped, horror creeping up into his throat, trying not to panic, trying to fill in the gaps of his memory. It was all sort of a muddy blur, and his head felt full of cotton, but he imagined he must have went home from the bar after his shift. He felt hungover, so perhaps he’d passed out drunk on the way home and some occultist had dragged his body to safety? Jaskier moved to sit up, struggling a bit from drowsiness. 

That was when an intense pain burst into his chest. Jaskier gasped, and his eyes shot down to where the pain had originated. His eyes bugged out immediately. 

He was shirtless, which wasn’t too unusual, considering he often lost his clothes when he was drunk. But instead of nice, smooth skin, his chest was crossed with massive, angry slices stitched up like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster. He brought his other hand up to shakily touch them, rather in shock, to ensure this was real, and quickly noticed that there was an IV embedded in his wrist. 

If he had found himself in a nice, clean, white hospital room maybe this would have made some form of sense to him; but considering his current surroundings, Jaskier’s brain had entirely short-circuited regarding ideas on what the fucking hell was happening. It was in that moment of absolute shock and horror that the door opened. 

Jaskier’s head shot up as a man entered the room. A somewhat short, older, stocky man with thin white hair, small glasses, and a long, dark coat. He didn’t seem to notice Jaskier yet, moving to close the door and pull off his coat, hanging it up on the small rack beside it. When he turned back around, Jaskier noticed red stains all over the man’s shirt. 

“Oh my god.” It all dawned on Jaskier all of a sudden. 

The man glanced up at him over his spectacles. “Ah. Awake then?” His voice was deep and grizzled, his accent American. 

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Jaskier’s eyes were wide, “You stole all my organs!” It all made sense now. The Frankenstein stitches all over his torso, the creepy room filled with preserved organs and hacking tools, the bloodstains on the man’s shirt. He was some kind of black-market organ harvester. 

The man raised a messy eyebrow at him. “...do you really think you’d be complaining right now if I stole all your organs?” He limped over to a drawer and opened it, rummaging around inside. 

“You replaced them with the dying ones from the transplant recipients!” Jaskier accused, honestly freaking out quite a bit right now; the panic and his dazed, drugged head making it all the more difficult to shut his mouth for the sake of self-preservation. He shrank back against the pillow as the man seemed to have found what he was looking for, and started limping in Jaskier’s direction. “I’m going to die of multiple organ failure!” Jaskier cried out, voice going an octave higher as he drew the blanket up to his neck. More likely, as he felt the fear rising in his stomach, he was about to die from this man cutting his throat from knowing too much. Jaskier trembled, but he was frozen in fear. 

The man only laughed. “You watch too much TV.” Jaskier cowered, glancing between the man and the object in his hand as he stopped at the cot, grabbing the wooden chair and dragging it over. He sat down with a grunt and began fiddling with the object, which Jaskier stared at warily. “You were mauled by a werewolf.” The man corrected, as casually as stating the weather. 

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, oho, _I_ watch too much TV?!” 

The man finally lifted the object up, and Jaskier flinched until he realized it was just a tiny flashlight. The man reached out and grabbed Jaskier by the face, who was too startled to resist, forced his right eye open wider with his fingers, and shone the flashlight in it. “What do you remember?” He asked, looking into Jaskier’s eye with his brows furrowed. This close, Jaskier could see the man had a jagged scar running down the side of his face. That was rather concerning. 

“Uhh well, my name is Jaskier Pankratz,” Jaskier spoke in his quick, rambling way, not thinking about whether he should be saying any of this, “I’m 26 years old, my parents were Polish immigrants and I was born in London, and in 4th grade I-” 

“I mean about last night.” 

“Oh. I don’t know. I was drunk, I think. Dreamed about a bear or something. And an impossibly handsome man with weird eyes. Maybe I’ve been watching too many romantic fantasy shows.” 

“Well, that wasn’t a dream.” The man had switched over to the other eye, and Jaskier was seeing spots. “Those are claw marks on your chest. You think a scalpel would leave such jagged edges?” 

“That sounds like something an organ harvester would try to get me to think.” Jaskier blinked when the man finally released his face. He noticed a particularly arcane poster on the wall behind the man, an illustration of a goat-man, and an idea suddenly hit him. “...oh god. You’re a sorcerer! You took my kidney for witchcraft!” 

The man snorted, moving to stand up with a sore grunt and walked over to another cabinet. “If I’d have taken something for witchcraft, I’d have taken your heart or your virility.” 

Jaskier blinked, nervous energy suddenly shooting through him at that idea. He quickly pulled the blanket back, heart thumping as he lifted his boxers up to peek under them. He immediately relaxed. Penis still accounted for. 

“Anyway, it wasn’t a bear that got you. It was a werewolf.” The man went on, opening the cabinet with a creak. It was filled with weird bottles that looked straight out of a physician’s inventory from the middle ages. 

“Wonderful, I’ve been sewn up and drugged by a delusional madman.” Jaskier glanced around the room. He wondered if he would be able to reach the door before the man turned around. The man had a pretty bad limp, surely Jaskier could outrun him? Then again, Jaskier felt pretty weak and dizzy, like he hadn’t slept in days, and his limbs felt heavy. Who knew if he would even get in a single step. 

“After everything you went through last night, you really don’t believe in werewolves?” 

“Look, if werewolves were real, I’d think we’d have found one by now, and it would be researched exten-” 

Suddenly the door burst open once again. Jaskier jolted and looked up just in time to see a massive, hairy body dumped on the table. Instantly, the gray fur, the black, glassy eyes, claws and bloody fangs caused the memories of last night to flood into him all at once. Like an icy cold splash of water to the face, his blood chilled over. 

“Oh... my... god. _Supernatural is a documentary_.” Jaskier whispered, in complete awe of the realization. 

“Well, it’s a bit evangelized.” The old man grunted. 

The man who had deposited the werewolf carcass walked around the table, glancing at Jaskier, and then at the old man as he brushed the fur from his shirt. “Alive, then?” His gruff, disinterested voice only further cemented Jaskier’s memories. 

“Aye, not certain about the state of his brain though.” The old man responded, pulling out bottles and glancing over their labels. “No concussion that I can tell, he might just be stupid.” 

Jaskier stared at the newcomer in a daze. That long hair, whiter than the moonlight, those golden eyes more wolfish than the werewolf’s. That hard jawline, those cheekbones; god, he was more beautiful than in his memories. “You’re the handsome man!” Jaskier exclaimed, gesturing towards him. 

The man blinked back at him, eyebrow raised. “...thanks?” 

Jaskier hurriedly corrected himself, “No, no. Well, _yes_ , god yes. But I mean the one who saved my life.” 

“I suppose.” 

“I’m Jaskier, by the way. Jaskier Pankratz. Singer, songwriter. Go by Dandelion on stage, maybe you’ve heard of me.” 

“...Dandelion.” The man put on mock emphasis, making a funny face. 

“This is Geralt.” The old man cut in, turning back to introduce the white-haired man, a few bottles in his arms. “He kills werewolves and the like for money.” 

Geralt grunted.

Jaskier nearly swooned at those words. “I’ve been heroically saved by an incredibly handsome, muscular werewolf hunter named _Geralt._ ” He rambled, basically to himself. “This is like a trash fantasy romance novel except _real (unless I’m dreaming_ ) and _it’s all terribly romantic_.” 

Geralt grimaced, and began to turn back to the table, seemingly eager to end this exchange. 

“Wait, wait! I have to thank you properly!” Jaskier said, tossing the blanket from his body and struggling to sit up straight, wincing at the pain in his chest. 

“I didn’t do it for you, you just happened to be there.” Geralt sighed, glancing back with annoyance, crossing his arms. 

“Still!” Jaskier hissed in pain as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “If not for you, I’d have been nothing but a pile of meat in that thing’s belly now. I literally owe you my life!” He took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, fighting the dizziness that threatened to drop him, the heaviness of his limbs, the unwillingness of his muscles to function. The old man watched this exchange curiously as Jaskier, essentially naked other than his boxer briefs, IV stretching behind him, legs rather wobbly, began walking towards Geralt. “I am indebted to you, a life debt you might say. Thusly, as you essentially own my body now, you may do what you will with me. Literally anything, honestly. I’m pretty flexible.” 

“That’s not-” 

“And then afterwards, I shall write a song detailing everything that has transpired, of your heroic deeds and such. Oh, I can hear it now! ...no, wait, that’s just ringing.” Jaskier blinked, the pain in his body burning hotter than ever. “Can anyone else hear- oh. Well, the world’s going fuzzy aga- oh dear, okay, well-” And with that Jaskier collapsed into a heap on the floor at Geralt’s feet with a thump, unconscious yet again. 

Geralt stared down at him with one eyebrow raised, then glanced up at the old man, who was also staring. 

“What a strange boy.” The old man said. 

“Hm.”

“Suppose we should get him back into bed.” 

Geralt sighed. 

\-- 

A few hours later, Jaskier had awakened and was somewhat sedated on the bed, pain calmed by morphine, given a set of loose pajama pants and fed a rather nice stew that he really hoped didn't have any werewolf meat in it. Since a werewolf is usually human, would eating werewolf meat be cannibalism? He really tried not to think about it. He’d eventually learned the old man’s name was Raully, or his last name anyway, and that he was a sort of doctor who specialized in wounds inflicted by magical creatures. 

The room felt so much different now that an entirely new world had been opened to him. The golden tone cast from the sunlit windows was warm and cozy, the botanicals and books like friendly, cottage witchcraft, and it felt safe from the monsters he now knew lurked outside. 

That said, the smell coming from where Geralt and Raully were currently dissecting the werewolf was rather far from appetizing. Choking back a gag, Jaskier turned the drip on the morphine while the good doctor wasn’t looking, quickly feeling the warm wave of numbness fill his veins. He took the IV pole in his hand, got up from the bed and started rolling it over to the table. He plopped himself down in the chair on the end of the table that was furthest from the internal anatomy lab going on, avoiding the puddle of bodily fluids, and rested his elbows on it. 

“So.” He started. 

Geralt ignored him, but Raully glanced his way, shirt covered in even more blood than before. 

“Tell me more about... this.” Jaskier gestured to the guts spilling out of the wolf. It was revolting, but he’d rather gotten used to it by an hour ago, and the drugs made him loopy enough to stop caring about things like that. 

“About the magically valuable parts of a werewolf?” Raully asked. 

“No, no. About monsters. I assume there’s more than just werewolves out there?” 

Geralt grunted. “You could say that.” 

“And you’re a... monster hunter.” Jaskier gestured to Geralt. 

“I’m a Witcher.” 

Jaskier blinked. “You hunt witches?” Seemed rather counterproductive, considering Raully was basically a witch doctor. 

“No, I hunt dangerous magical creatures and beasts.” 

“So... a Witcher is a person who hunts monsters.” 

“...yes.” 

“So you might say a Witcher is a monster hunter.” 

“...” 

“You really could have just said yes in the first-” 

“Witchers are sort of...” Raully thought for a moment. “Monster bounty hunters of the Valley.” 

“The... Valley?” Jaskier raised an eyebrow. 

“The Valley is what we call people as a whole who know anything real about the magical world. Anyone who uses real magic, studies the history, had encounters with monsters and such.” Raully explained. “You’re part of it now.” 

“The Valley. You could have called it something cool, like... I don’t know, fucking _Avalon_ , and you called it the Valley. 

“Ay, I didn’t call it anything, it’s a term that’s been used for centuries. Some old elven reference, I think.” 

“ _ELVES_.” Jaskier exclaimed, falling backwards into the seat in shock and excitement. “ _Elves_ are real!” Images of discovering a hidden elven city and becoming friends with a beautiful, stylish elf king that looked a whole lot like Lee Pace flashed through his mind. 

“I mean, I’ve never met one, but supposedly they’re the ones who summon the monsters.” 

“ _Evil elves._ ” Jaskier whispered. 

“ _Supposedly_.” Geralt grumbled from where he was currently sawing through a bone. 

“Anyway, Valley knowledge is highly secretive and passed on to anyone whose eyes have been opened to the world of magic.” Raully went on, leaning over to bring his scalpel back into the werewolf’s belly. “We’ve got our own written language and everything. Old elven tongue, called Elder Speech, written in Elder Runes. Use it if we need to keep messages hidden from anyone not of the Valley.” 

“Ooooh, am I going to learn it?” Jaskier felt a jolt of excitement run through his veins. A secret language, a secret society! He’d grown up reading books where things like this happened, but he’d been dragged through the real world so long that he’d long given up hope for adventure. That old wonder had been reawakened today, and he’d never felt so alive. The possibilities were limitless, it was dizzying. Or maybe that was just the blood loss. 

“I’d certainly recommend it.” Raully said, pulling back when a blackish liquid spurt out of the organ he was cutting out. “Sometimes Valley folk will plant warnings about local creatures written in Elder, carved in telephone poles or trees, hidden in graffiti or stickers. It’s good practice to keep on the lookout for them.” 

“ _I’m going to learn a secret language_.” 

“Don’t get so excited,” Geralt rumbled, sounding rather annoyed as he ripped an organ out and placed it in a jar. “You were better off before you knew any of this.” 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow, “I think I’d rather know about things that could possibly kill me, so I can avoid them.” 

“And now you will never trust any shadow. You’ll look for werewolves in the bushes and wonder whether your friend is a doppler.” Geralt finally looked up at Jaskier, golden eyes fiery. “The likeliness of running into another monster in your life is slim to none. You’d be better off living in ignorance.” 

Jaskier rested his face in his hand thoughtfully. “Maybe. Sounds boring, though.” He looked Geralt in the eye. “And unless you’ve got a magic potion that will take away my memories, there’s not much we can do about it.” He blinked, glancing up at the ceiling. “Actually, does that exist? Because I can think of several awkward memories I’d rather-” 

Suddenly, the door was wracked with loud knocking, and a voice materialized from behind it, “Doc? You here?” 

Raully glanced up at Geralt, who gazed back at him evenly. “In here, Gabby.” The old man eventually called out. 

The door opened, and in stepped a young-looking girl, perhaps in her mid-teens. She blinked in surprise when she realized the old man had company, eyes resting on the massive, hideous wounds on Jaskier’s chest for a moment, then glancing up at Geralt, and freezing in shock. Geralt sighed and looked back down at the werewolf carcass. 

“Yes, what is it, girl?” Raully prodded, taking her by the shoulder and steering her away from the Witcher. 

The girl glanced warily at Geralt over her shoulder, “What’s a _Witcher_ doing here?” She hissed quietly, “You know Sir Endle won’t be happy.” 

“What Sir Endle doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He looked at her pointedly. “Now, what is it you need?” 

Jaskier wondered what was so bad about monster bounty hunters that it would make someone unhappy to have one in their company. He’d have to ask later, right now he wasn’t feeling so fantastic. Quite the opposite of fantastic, in fact. 

“I’m not sure I should talk Knight business in front of-” Gabby started, but was interrupted by Jaskier suddenly gagging. 

“Damn it.” The old man cursed and quickly grabbed a bucket, shoving it over to Jaskier, who was looking terribly ill. “Don’t you puke on my floor, boy.” 

“What, ‘cause the blood and guts aren’t alre- oh god.” Jaskier bent over and wretched into the bucket, which was already a third of the way filled with werewolf bodily fluids, the sight and smell of which didn’t _at all_ make him feel any better, and his body convulsed with a second bout. 

Raully fiddled with the IV holder with a long sigh. “You messed with the morphine, didn’t you?” 

Jaskier confirmed this by continuing to puke. 

The old man grabbed Jaskier’s arm and twisted the tubing out of the IV, then stood up straight with a cracking sound and smacked Geralt on the shoulder. “Go take him to the bathroom while I take care of this Knight business.” His tone left no room for discussion. 

Geralt let out a frustrated sigh, but he didn’t argue. He wiped his hands off on a towel and walked over to Jaskier, grabbing him by the arm and hoisting him up. “Come on, then.” 

Jaskier, feeling far too nauseous to argue, allowed himself to be dragged along out the door. “Knights?” He sniffed through watery eyes, desperately trying to hold down the bile rising in his throat. “What is this, Game of Thrones?” 

“Archaic languages often translate best to archaic forms of English.” Geralt said gruffly, by way of explanation, as he marched Jaskier down the hall. Jaskier wanted to ask more, he’s had a million questions since he woke up the second time; but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth again, more than just words would come out right now. 

They soon reached the bathroom, and Geralt led him inside just in time for Jaskier to lose his ability to hold in his vomit any longer, and immediately doubled over the toilet to retch once more. Geralt went to stand outside with a grimace. After vomiting a record number of times, Jaskier was just dry heaving by the end of it. 

Feeling quite weak and emptied, Jaskier shakily wiped the snot and tears from his face with a hand towel, flushed the toilet and stood up. He took in a deep breath, leaned over the sink and gazed into the mirror with a sniff. The image staring back at him was rather shocking. So pale that he looked like he’d been drained by a vampire; which he realized now probably actually existed; with extraordinarily dark circles under his eyes, his nose and lips purple. He’d never looked quite this bad before, even when he was in the hospital with bad pneumonia, or after waking up blackout drunk. 

Worse than that, though, was his body. 

The bathroom mirror wasn’t large, but from what he could see, he was rather covered in bruises. But that was nothing compared to the massive, jagged lines running across his torso. Red, puffy and hideous with those dark stitches, as though he’d been sewn back together like a shredded dog's toy. Which he supposed he was. These were, without a doubt, going to scar horribly. So much for the soft, smooth, unbroken skin he’d worked at for so many years of moisturizing. Laying with lovers was never going to be the same again. 

Rather than marveling over his skin as they explored each other’s bodies, they were going to see these scars, their eyes will bug out, and they will ask how it happened. He will have to make up a story. Perhaps they will be horrified, perhaps they will not be able to look at him. And if they do look at him, it will no doubt be in pity. 

“It’s a better look than dead.” Came Geralt’s gruff voice. 

Jaskier glanced over to see the man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed casually. He gave the Witcher a slight smile, just the corner of his mouth. “Depends who you’re talking to.” He sounded stuffy, his throat burning from all the bile that had run through it moments ago. “A necrophiliac might disagree.” He took in a deep breath and pushed away from the sink, stepping over into the doorway and leaning against the side across from Geralt. Close enough to be exciting, if he had any energy left in him. “So... why doesn’t Sir Lancelot like Witchers?” 

Geralt glanced at him thoughtfully for a moment. “We’re mutants.” He eventually answered, voice low. “Many see us as no better than the monsters we hunt, and most people with a brain on them are afraid of us.” 

“Well, _I’m_ not afraid of you.” 

“As I said, most people with a brain on them.” 

“Hilarious. The tall, brooding, tough guy is a comedian.” Jaskier said sarcastically. “So, this... secret society thing. Has its own army of knights? Is it even legal to have a secret army-” 

“Valley Knights are just local people willing to kill monsters, usually for free.” Geralt grumbled, unfolding his arms and turning out into the hall to pace. Despite his monotone, his voice subtly radiated distaste. “They like to think they’re better than everyone for killing a beast once or twice, whether it was actually dangerous or not. Think it means they’re in charge.” 

“Sounds like there really is no love lost between Witchers and Knights.” Jaskier was truly fascinated by all of these new cultural points. A civil rivalry in a secret, monster-hunting, magical society; happening right under his nose the whole time. How thrilling, how poetic, how _inspiring._ Jaskier felt his fingers itch to jot down aureate metaphoricals regarding this fantasy realm he’d fallen into. “So, they’re the self-proclaimed cops of the magical world and you’re a hitman for hire. But why would anyone pay to have a creature killed if a Knight would do it for free?” 

Geralt barked a laugh at that. “Because Witchers are _made_ for killing monsters. Knights have no idea what they’re doing, running in and swinging sticks like children playing soldier. It takes an entire group of them to have a chance at killing something a single Witcher could take on. If you want a monster killed, and you want it done right, you call a Witcher.” 

“‘Course, not a lot of people know that anymore.” Raully’s voice materialized as the old man limped down the hall towards them. “The Knights make sure of that. Putting a bad name on the Witchers, making the Valley folk wary of them, chasing them out of town sometimes. It’s scarce to find enough work these days to make a living, eh Witcher?” 

Geralt grunted in admittance, eyes unreadable, looking down at the floor. 

Jaskier felt his stomach twist in anger at that. Or maybe he was just hungry now that he’d puked his guts up. Either way, the injustice of it infuriated him. How dare anyone say ill of his beautiful, heroic savior? “That’s not fair. That’s downright discriminatory! How can you stand for it?” 

“Not much to do about it, up against the majority.” Raully sighed. 

Jaskier thought for a moment, an idea coming to his mind. “It sounds like you need another means of improving your public reputation. Subtly forcing people to see you in a good light. Perhaps... an infomercial!” He could picture it now. A few scenes of Geralt heroically taking down a beast, perhaps no frightening blood or guts involved, then turning to smile at the camera with a thumbs up. A crowd of people surrounding him and cheering for him, a woman wearing an ‘I Love Witchers’ T-shirt, some heartfelt interviews of people whose lives were saved by Witchers; all set to an upbeat 80’s TV tune. A number appears on the television, with the words, ‘call your friendly neighborhood Witcher today!’. 

“Right, thousands of everyday people tuning into channel 9 for their favorite daytime show on a Saturday afternoon interrupted by an ad for a monster killing service.” Raully broke into Jaskier’s daydream with a harsh laugh. “The calls will be rolling in, though I’m not sure for the reasons you’d like.” 

Jaskier frowned, thoughtfully placing his fist at his chin. “Fair point, it would have to be something more subtle, so the general public wouldn’t think anything of it.” 

Raully chuckled and reached over to pat Jaskier on the shoulder. “Well, you keep thinking on that. In the meantime, why don’t you go back to bed, perhaps eat something, and stay away from the morphine.” He glanced up at Geralt. “The Witcher and I have some business to attend to.” 

“But I-” 

“There’s a book in the room on reading and translating Elder.” Raully encouraged Jaskier to move away from the doorway and start down the hall with a gentle but insistent push. “Green, leather bound, gold title, ‘Complete Modern Guide to Elder by Sir Ethaine’. The sooner you get started on those studies, eh?” 

“Well, I suppose...” Jaskier really wanted to hear about whatever business the doctor and the Witcher had. No doubt it was about interesting mythical beast stuff. 

“And don’t touch the werewolf guts.” 

“Oh god, why the hell would I _ever?_ ” 

Once he’d successfully ushered Jaskier into the room and closed the door behind him, Raully let out an exasperated breath. “We’re going to have to knock him out and leave him on a park bench on discharge so he never knows how to get back here.” 

Geralt couldn’t help but snort at that. 

\-- 

Jaskier spent the entire day pouring over the book on Elder, occasionally falling into a feverish sleep full of stressful dreams involving the grammatical sentence structure of strange words that he couldn’t decipher up on the stage of a trivia show, the whole crowd booing him as he got all the questions wrong; and the whole crowd looked like Geralt, so that was rather distressing. Raully came in to check on him now and then, eventually taking the time to bottle up the rest of the werewolf’s organs before having a larger man come in and take the carcass away. It was nice to have that mess out of the room. Jaskier hadn’t seen Geralt since he left the pair in the hallway, having heard them argue indecipherably through the door after he’d been shut in. 

By late afternoon, when he felt like he was getting the hang of the basics of Elder, Jaskier considered that perhaps he should use his phone to take notes for studying when he got back home. When he thought on that, he remembered his phone existed, and that he should probably come back down out of fairyland and check it for messages from the real world. When he remembered that his phone existed and that he should probably check it, that there was a world outside of fairyland; he suddenly remembered, with a sharp stab of horror, that he was very late for work. 

Jaskier struggled against the grips of Raully and the large man from earlier as they blocked him from trying to leave the room. “You don’t understand, I _cannot_ lose this job!” He cried desperately. 

“You’re in absolutely no state to be running around in the streets right now, boy; nevermind doing manual labor.” Raully argued. It wasn’t too hard to hold Jaskier back, weak as he was from everything his body had gone through from the past night and day. “You fainted just walking to the bathroom by yourself earlier.” 

"I collapsed masculinely!"

After much protesting, Jaskier eventually gave up and submitted to being dragged back to bed, feeling rather depressed. If he couldn’t convince his boss that he had a very good reason for not coming into work, he was absolutely fired. How the hell would he explain getting mauled by a werewolf and spending the entire day in a witch doctor’s recovery room? Granted, it wasn’t the wildest of stories he’s tried to convince the man of. Which certainly didn’t do him any favors. 

He supposed there was nothing he could do about it for now, however, and opted to focus on his studies. He would cross that bridge when he got to it. 

The next morning, Raully led Jaskier, who was feeling much stronger already, outside for some fresh air. Now having seen the place from the outside, Jaskier noted that it was a dingy but character-filled house on the outskirts of the city, with a decent-sized yard and privacy granted by surrounding trees and a grand variety of overgrown plants. Endearing, really. The dirt driveway was filled with a number of vehicles, and a sign outside said ‘Raully’s Natural Remedies’, with Elder runes written subtly beneath it that Jaskier recognized as ‘Of The Valley’. Jaskier teased him by asking about his essential oil collection. The old man only rolled his eyes and ignored him as he waded into the garden. 

Jaskier spotted a massive, black, gleaming motorcycle parked away from the rest, under the shade of a tree, and realized it looked rather familiar. A Kawasaki Ninja, according to the label; with an odd, secondary label in thick, white cursive. ‘Roach’, it read, and the same in Elder Runes, tiny underneath it. A sudden flash of memories of being in and out of consciousness the other night came back to him. “Is that Geralt’s?” He asked, stalking up to it. 

Raully looked up from his examining and trimming of the herbs that grew along the garden bed. “Oh yes, that’s- oh, I really wouldn’t-” 

“ _Don’t touch Roach_.” Came a low, growly voice. 

Jaskier jumped and snatched his hand back from the bike, whirling around to find Geralt striding up, hard look in his wolfish eyes. Jaskier swallowed, eyes round. Not so much scared as having sudden flashing memories of being pressed against Geralt’s hard torso on that bike journey, wrapped safely in his strong arm, and trying not to make it too obvious that the idea rather excited him. 

“I already had to wash and wax her extensively after you bled all over her.” Geralt grumbled, pushing past Jaskier and stepping up to the motorcycle’s back storage. 

“How did it go?” Raully asked from his garden. 

Geralt sighed, opening the compartment and tossing what looked like a blow dart inside. “Your little wannabe dragon slayers are fine. When they ‘came upon’ the beast, which was just a young wyvern by the way, it was rather sluggish for some odd reason.” 

Raully gave him a knowing look. “Thank you, old friend.” He said softly. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time a Knight gained prestige over a Witcher’s hard work.” Geralt grumbled. 

“I know, I know. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve already sent the coin your way.” Raully wiped his hands off on his pants, pocketing a few plant snippets. “I suppose you’ll be off, then?” 

Geralt shook his head, “One more job here. Might take a few days, but then I’ll be moving on.” 

Jaskier tilted his head, somewhat disappointed. “You’re leaving?” 

“Witchers never stay in one place.” Raully explained. “They go where the work takes them.” 

“Like a lorry driver with knives.” Jaskier nodded in understanding. 

“...sure.” 

“Can I come?” Jaskier suddenly asked, looking up at Geralt. 

Geralt’s gaze shot back around at him, one eyebrow raised, “ _No_.” 

“Why not? It would be fun!” Jaskier insisted. “You, me at your back _(feeling up your lovely abs)_ , riding where the monsters take us, punching out our ‘classic diners of America tour’ card, staying in every grand hotel from here to California, saving people, hunting things, the fam-” 

“I work alone, and no one rides Roach but me.” 

“I mean, clearly _that’s_ not true or I wouldn’t be here.” 

“That was an emergency, and it’s never happening again.” 

“With your muscle, and my intelligence, suave and people skills, we would be an unstoppable-” 

Geralt stepped forward intimidatingly, towering over him, golden eyes hard and voice rumbling with finality, “Jaskier, this life is not an adventure. Being a Witcher is neither fun nor glorious.” 

“ _He said my name._ ” Jaskier whispered, gushing. Oh, how lovely it had sounded in that gravelly voice, it chilled his blood to hear it. He could just imagine it, growled into his ear-

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt barked in irritation. 

“Yes, yes.” Jaskier waved him off. “Big, scary things, not fun, got it. So, what are we hunting?” 

“ _I_ am hunting a doppler. _You_ are going home.” With that, Geralt dropped his sunglasses over his eyes and turned to swing a leg over the motorcycle. 

Jaskier took a few paces back when the engine roared to life. “Is that like, a shapeshifter? I could help! I know a lot of people in this city!” 

“I’m sure you do.” Geralt muttered. Probably more like a lot of people in this city knew Jaskier, and promptly avoided him. He revved the engine and rolled forward. 

Jaskier sighed as he watched the man roll past him. God damn did he look sexy in all that black leather, with those sunglasses, straddling that badass motorcycle, white hair whipping in the wind. “So much for my fantasy romance novel.” He said sadly to himself. Honestly, it was rather crushing. For some reason, the idea of dropping everything and following this man across the country seemed like so much fun, like it was the thing to do, the thing that made sense. He wanted to see the world, the secret world of magic up close. And Geralt? He was beautiful and inspiring, Jaskier owed him his life, and he honestly felt safest in his presence. Like the monsters of the night that he now knew existed couldn’t hurt him so long as Geralt was around. Maybe it was just trauma talking. Latching onto your savior in the face of a terrifying near-death experience. 

But he felt like he could follow that man to the ends of the world. 

“Best forget about it, kiddo.” Raully had walked up by now, and pat him on the shoulder. “Geralt’s a lone wolf. So much so, they call him the White Wolf.” 

“That’s very sexy.” Jaskier sighed forlornly. 

“If you say so.” 

Raully turned away to head back into the house, while Jaskier stayed to watch until Geralt was gone from view. 

Something in his gut told him this wasn’t the last time he’d see the man. 

Or maybe that was just the stew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have only a basic idea of where this is going and I’ll be updating tags as needed. Expect monster hunting, shenanigans, and a total of one braincell between these two idiots.  
> Let's have fun with this!


	2. The Doppler Effect

It was dusk, the sky a deepening purple and the moon, still full, was fading into view. The sun had long dipped below the horizon, its dying light a wash of orange just cutting through the trees at the edge of the city. The road had long smoothed out since the disrepaired roads of the outskirts made way for the freshly-paved streets of the inner city. 

“So what’s the difference between a basilisk and a cockatrice?” Jaskier asked, drumming his fingers on the seat, a tune that had been repeating in his head most of the day. 

“Well, basilisk venom is far more deadly.” Raully responded, not looking away from the road. “But unless you’re a mage or a Witcher, the other differences don’t much matter.” 

Jaskier sighed. Such vague answers had been plaguing him all day. His hunger to learn about this new world he’d found himself in was a bottomless pit, and Raully was unwilling to feed him. 

Hours after Geralt had disappeared, the old doctor had decided that Jaskier was well enough to continue his recovery at home. Or perhaps he was forcing it to get the young man out of the house. “The potions have done their work in speeding up the healing and the blood restoration.” The old man had explained. “But wait at least a week before attempting any strenuous activity, bending and twisting, and heavy lifting.” 

“I suppose that rules out sex.” 

“I think you’ll live without it for a single week.” 

“I’m a horny man, Raully. A very horny man.” 

“You know what’s a real turn off for everyone involved? Reopening a wound and bleeding out in the middle of an intimate moment.” 

Now, Jaskier sat in the well-worn bench seat of Raully’s centuries-old truck, seatbelts long since rotted away, occasionally sliding on the slick leather when the man swerved and having to grip the handle on the door to steady himself. He had changed back into his fitted black pants and his boots, but his shirt had been shredded beyond repair, so he’d been given a worn, well-oversized plaid button-up to cover up with. The sleeves were too long, and it occasionally slipped down his shoulder. 

Jaskier spent the entire trip trying not to think about what he had to do when he got home, so he’d tried to talk about monsters and the things he'd learned from Raully's various books with the old man; anything to distract himself. But the old man seemed weary of his interrogations for two days straight, and was starting to get short with him, so Jaskier turned to gaze out the window and focus on the song idea that had been formulating over the day instead. 

When they arrived at the apartment complex, rolling to a stop at the door, Raully finally addressed him, “I imagine you’ll heal up fine, but don’t hesitate to call if you notice anything strange. Normal doctors won’t know what the hell they’re looking at.” 

“Strange like, my tongue turning purple strange?” 

“Strange like spontaneous, uncontrollable bleeding.” 

“Oh, that’s comforting.” 

“Am I going to regret giving you my number?” 

“Probably.” 

Raully couldn’t help but laugh at that. As annoying as Jaskier was, the boy had grown on him. His cheerful attitude in the face of the madness he’d been thrown into and his unrelenting desire to learn were, although overwhelming qualities, rather endearing. 

“Thank you, Raully; really.” Jaskier looked over at him with an earnest look. “I have you as much as Geralt to thank for my life. If there’s anything I can ever do to repay your kindness, I will commit to it wholeheartedly.” 

Raully nodded, “Repay me by not texting me questions about monster phylogeny every ten minutes and we’ll call it even.” 

“Now that one I can’t promise.” 

“Oi, off with you then.” 

Jaskier smirked as he popped the door open, grabbed his bag and hopped out. 

As usual, the door to the apartment was not locked. His roommates, usually flying high on the devil’s lettuce, preferred the pizza delivery man to bring the food directly to the couch. Jaskier closed the door behind him and kicked off his boots, heading down to where the living room was overlooked by the small, open kitchen. As he expected, he found his three roommates sprawled across the couch, playing Smash Bros and eating Cheetos in their boxers like a typical group of young bachelors. 

If there was one positive thing about sharing a space with a bunch of potheads, it was that they were very tolerant of Jaskier’s drama, rambling and ukulele at 3am. Ethan, Cam and Jon were all good, easy-going, fun guys that got along well, and Jaskier did enjoy their company. He really felt like he was part of a little family.

“Ayyy, there he is!” Called out Cam when he noticed Jaskier enter the room. “We were starting to get worried. Oh fuck, Jon that was _my_ fire flower!” 

"First come, first serve." Jon spat back.

“Oh, Jask, you look terrible.” Ethan’s eyebrows were raised, looking Jaskier up and down. Jaskier caught a glance of his own reflection in one of the little mirrors that hung in the hallway. Though he’d gotten some color back over the day, he did still look rather pale and drained. 

“Holed up with some beautiful person for an entire 48 hours?” Jon cut in with a smirk, glancing at the shirt that was most clearly not his.

“You could say that.” Jaskier sighed, heading into the kitchen. He really didn't feel like trying to come up with a story for the past two days. Instead, he went straight for the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. The trio stared at him from the couch, game forgotten for the moment, as he popped the cork and started chugging like he was in a drinking contest. All three sets of eyes wide and amazed as he drained half the bottle in moments. 

“Oh boy.” Ethan blinked, putting his controller down and getting up from his spot on the couch, stalking across the living room, stopping at the other side of the counter and resting his hands on it. “Alright Jas, talk to me, what’s going on?” 

Jaskier put the wine bottle on the counter, gulping in a breath of air. “Oh, nothing. I’m just about to go be fired.” 

“Oh, honey; again?” 

Jaskier groaned and bent over the counter, face buried in his arms.

“Oh, baby...” Ethan reached over and put a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder sympathetically. “Need some cuddles?” 

“Yes, but later.” Jaskier sniffed and pushed himself up straight, rubbing his face tiredly. “I need to go get this over with.” 

“You want me to come with?” 

“I’ll be alright.” Jaskier sighed, replacing the cork on the wine bottle. “I just needed some brave bitch juice.” 

“Babyface, your very essence is brave bitch juice. You can do this.” 

Jaskier flashed him a little, forced smile and headed down to his room. 

The room was small as it was, but made ever less spacious by the amount of clutter that lay around. All very necessary things, mind you. Amps and recording equipment, posters of his greatest inspirations and heroes, sheet music and scribbled lyrics everywhere. What looked like chaos... was indeed chaos; but Jaskier knew exactly where everything was in this hurricane disaster area and he will know if you moved a single animal eraser. 

Jaskier quickly stripped and changed into new clothes before he could chicken out by tossing himself onto the bed and wrapping himself in a blanket burrito for the night, which were the things he dearly wanted to do instead. As he buttoned his vest, he felt like he was dressing for his own funeral. Honestly, he might be. Jim was probably going to kill him. 

As he started for the door, he glanced over and noticed his ukulele laying on the desk. His fingers itched to pluck those strings, and it rather felt like the instrument was calling to him. He decided to walk over and take it, swinging it onto his back with the strap crossing his torso. It made him feel calmer and more confident, having it on his person, the ability to play gentle tunes within his reach. “Alright, darling. Let’s do this.” He addressed the instrument, taking in a deep breath, in and out.

Jaskier marched out the door, holding his head high. Ethan was right. He was a brave bitch. He could do this. 

“Call if you need anything, babyface.” Ethan told him, having returned to his seat on the couch, as he passed by. “Don’t go lay on the sidewalk dramatically begging passing bicyclists to run over your head this time.” 

“Don’t make us have to pull you out of the Golden Dragon’s dumpster after you dramatically throw yourself away again either.” Jon added. “We all smelled like lo mein for three weeks after last time.” 

“And please, for the love of all that is holy,” Cam added, “don’t go to a gourmet restaurant and run around asking every single well-dressed older man if they’ll be your sugar daddy until one of their spouses attempts to murder you with a meat fork again.” 

“No promises!” Jaskier said over his shoulder as he reached the door, opening it and heading out. 

“There goes our precious cinnamon roll, out to face the harsh reality of the real world. What a brave little soldier.” Cam sighed. 

“Let’s pour one out for him.” Jon said. 

All three mimed pouring out drinks in sync as the door closed behind their fallen comrade. 

Jaskier was confident for the entire walk, dark city illuminated by signs and street lamps, thinking about the grand ways he was going to convince Jim to let him stay on; all up until the bar came into view. He slowed down when he realized the man smoking on the sidewalk outside was none other than his manager. Jaskier swallowed, took a deep breath of chilly night air, and forced his legs to keep moving. 

When he reached the older, gruff-looking man, he stopped; wringing his hands, he cleared his throat. “It’s ah... refreshingly cool tonight, eh?” 

Jim didn’t look at him, just took a drag of his cigarette, and said with his exhale, “Pankratz. Was wondering if you’d show up today.” 

“Ah, yes well, I-” He stammered, all the words he had planned turned to slush. 

“You know, when I saw how clean the place was yesterday, and the fact that the doors were locked, I had some hope that maybe I finally got through to you.” The man finally snuffed his cigarette and turned to Jaskier, leaning against the wall of the bar. “But then you didn’t show up for your shift. And now you’re here, hours after you’re supposed to be today.” He didn’t sound angry, his eyes even as he gazed at Jaskier. He had the expression of someone who made peace with something a while ago. 

Jaskier raised his hands, face apologetic, “I entirely see your point, but I can assure you I have a perfectly legitimate reason why I haven’t been able to come in.” 

“I’m sure you do.” 

“I was actually in the hospital. I was mauled by a… bear.” 

“Jaskier.” 

“I know how it sounds, but I can, in fact, prove it!” Jaskier grabbed the collar of his shirt and started to pull it down, with the intention of showing the nasty gashes ripped across his torso. 

Before he could get anywhere with that, however, a pair of strong hands grabbed his arms. He blinked up in surprise. “Jaskier, enough.” Jim sighed, looking worn. “Just... enough.” 

Jaskier’s shoulders drooped as he let go of his shirt, and Jim released his arms. Any hope that he might get out of this drained from him. He knew Jim had made up his mind long before Jaskier showed up tonight. There was nothing he could do about it, now.

“I’m sorry, kid. But I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.” Jim said softly, and not unkindly. He planted an arm on the younger man’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m not gonna cut you out, you know you can always come to me if you’re in trouble, I’m not gonna withdraw that. But I can’t keep giving you chances. It’s not fair to everyone else.” 

Jaskier kept his eyes downcast, nodding slowly. “I understand. I… thank you, Jim.” He glanced up at him sincerely. “For everything you’ve ever done for me.” 

“You gonna be alright?” 

Jaskier flashed him a sad smile. “Aye, everything always turns out just fine for me.” With that, he started to back away, hands in his pockets. “Anyone asks, give them my website, eh?” 

“Good luck, Jaskier. I really do hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

“Me too.” 

For the sake of healing, Jaskier probably should have headed right back home and gone to sleep; but the night was so peaceful and quiet, the air cool, and he found himself wandering the streets instead. He may be a rural boy at heart, but there was something terribly romantic about a city at night; the street lamps like spindles of light in the darkness, the glitter of buildings in the distance, the only hint of the natural world in the cloud-cast moonlight dripping down where the canopy of rooftops made way. Besides, it was the least dramatic way he could be coping with the hopelessness he felt right now. 

Eventually, Jaskier came upon a tiny section of grass dotted by a few trees that cut in between the tall buildings and the neighborhood of nice, inner-city homes standing firm against the hungry jowls of the metropolis surrounding them. This sliver of a park had a few benches, and Jaskier opted to sit for a while. After a moment of breathing in the grass-laden air, he pulled his ukulele off his back, crossed his legs and rested the instrument comfortably on his thigh, fiddling with the tuning for a moment. Satisfied, he began to pluck the strings quietly. 

It was that same tune from earlier, the one he’d been humming off and on for a while. It was a simple melody, with an upbeat sound to it. It had potential, if he could think of the right words. But every memory, thought and idea he tried to match to it; it just didn’t sound right. This wasn’t a song of romance, remembrance or regret. This was something rather different from his typical style, and, in his heart, he knew it begged for words unlike anything he’d ever written. 

But what words? Which muse lent itself to a tune of this caliber? Had he even met it yet? 

It was while he was lost in these thoughts that Jaskier suddenly noticed something odd. From his place rather hidden in the shadow of the trees, he spotted a man walking down the road towards the nearest home on the block. Not that that in itself was particularly odd; but the way this man was dressed, in coveralls and holding a clipboard. He clearly didn’t live here; no one who owned one of these fancy homes dressed like that. It was far too late for anyone to be working on anything as it was, but the man also clearly had no delivery or work truck. Some sort of canvasser, perhaps; but for what, and so late at night? 

Though it’s gotten him in trouble countless times before, Jaskier wasn’t much for ‘learning’, and so his curiosity got the better of him. Swinging his ukulele back around, he stood up and began to creep silently towards the house, keeping to the shadows, the trees and the bushes as he went. He reached the fence and crouched behind a shrub, shrouded in darkness, peeking out between the planks as the man stepped up to the front door and rang the bell. 

The man that came to the door looked rather irritable to be interrupted like this.

“Pal, do you know what time it is?” He scowled.

“Good evening, sir! I understand it’s late, so I’ll be quick.” The coveralled man said cheerfully. “I’m with the water company, and we’re just trying to get some feedback from all residents currently being supplied by our pipes as to whether you would like us to continue adding fluoride, in response to the recent pushback.” 

“I really don’t give a shit, buddy.” 

“Great! Then if you could just sign here.” The man held out the clipboard and a pen. 

The man at the door sighed exasperatedly, but reached out and took the clipboard and pen. He scrawled a quick signature and handed both items back. As the man from the water company took the pen, his hand brushed the other’s briefly. He flashed a smile and tucked the clipboard under his arm. “Thank you for your time, sir!” 

The homeowner grunted in response, turned and closed the door in his face. 

The water company man smirked and clicked his pen, twirling it between his fingers, a strange look on his face. He turned on his heel and skipped down the steps, heading back down the walkway. Jaskier pulled back behind the shrub as the man passed him by. His curiosity had technically been uninterestingly satisfied, but something about this man felt... strange. He had no idea why; he was just a generic-looking worker. Call it a sixth sense, but he decided to keep his eyes on him as he went on his way. 

Oh boy was he rewarded for that. 

When the man reached a shady area, he glanced around as though checking to see if anyone was looking. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes turned pure white, and Jaskier had to bite back a surprised noise as the man's skin began literally squirming. His features began widening, his hair changed color and receded. Jaskier watched in shock and horror as the man transformed, until he was a mirror image of the man who had come to the door of the house. The new face he wore twisted into a smirk as he tossed the clipboard into a nearby garbage can and continued on his way, whistling chipperly. 

When he was long gone, Jaskier stood up, hands on his head in a panic. “Oh fuck, oh fuck oh fuck _oh fuck_!” He started pacing in circles, brain a muddled mess, trying to decide if he’d actually seen what he just saw, and what it could mean- 

“Oh- _oh_! Shapeshifter, doppler? Geralt! I need to contact Geralt!” Jaskier ripped his phone out of his pocket, fumbling with it, hands shaky. He opened up his contact book and hit the call button. 

He continued pacing, nibbling his thumbnail as the phone rang. 

After several rings, a voice finally answered, “Jaskier, it’s 10 fucking 30.” 

“Raully! Oh my god, I’m flipping my shit right now-” 

“Stop yelling, boy. What’s going on? Are you bleeding out?” 

“I’m 99.3% sure I just saw the doppler that Geralt is hunting!” 

“Jaskier...” Raully sighed exasperatedly. It wasn’t too unusual for new Valley initiates to start seeing monsters everywhere they looked, but he’d really hoped the boy would at least give him the night off. 

“His skin went all- and he turned into-! Oh god, what’s he gonna-?!” 

“Jaskier, if you’re not home in bed right now, please go home and go to bed.” 

“I need to tell Geralt! Do you have his number?” 

“He specifically told me not to tell you his number.” 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Wow. _Wow_. That’s cold.” 

“Go home, Jaskier.” 

“Can you just! At least tell him-?” 

“Good night, Jaskier.” 

“Wait, wait- I-!” 

The line went dead, the tone vibrating in his ear, the night silent. Jaskier let out a frustrated sound and shoved his phone in his back pocket, crossing his arms. “Fine, fuck them all. Not my problem.” 

Pushing this whole situation to the back of his mind, Jaskier shoved his hands in his pockets and started home. 

\-- 

The fog was billowing on the horizon, cast orange by the morning sun. Other than the passing cars, it was quiet on this stretch of road on the outskirts of the city. The void-black paint on Roach gleamed, freshly waxed, where the tree above allowed rays of light through its chokehold. 

Geralt sat against the side of the motorcycle, one foot on the pedal and the other on the ground, sunglasses muting the color of the world. The gentle scraping of the silver dagger he was sharpening cutting into the occasional birdsong. He hadn’t made much progress on the doppler case yesterday, no scent or sign of the creature anywhere he’d checked. It was a massive city, and the creature was harder to find than a needle. Still, dopplers had a certain scent to them. Something in their DNA they couldn't change like the rest. It was only a matter of time until he picked up the trail. 

Suddenly, Geralt’s phone began vibrating in his jacket pocket. He reached down and pulled it out, setting the dagger aside as he accepted the call. “What?” He answered gruffly. 

“Witcher, it's Sanderson.” The client who hired Geralt to hunt the doppler. Geralt nearly sighed. Rich men always got impatient when they heard no progress. 

“Nothing to report.” Geralt grumbled. 

“Well, I do.” The man sounded angry. “Another one of my employees got hit this morning. All over the news; supposedly he got caught accepting bribes. I talked to him today, he swore he hadn’t even left the house last night.” 

“Hm. Sounds like our vexling’s M.O.” 

“Geralt, people are starting to inquire about the legitimacy of my law firm.” The man spat. “If you don’t kill this thing soon, my business and reputation are as good as destroyed.” 

“It would be helpful if I had a list of possible targets.” Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “List of names and addresses of everyone who works for you.” He had a better chance of picking up the scent with a more narrow list of possible locations. 

“I can get you that.” Sanderson said, tone clipped. “Meet me at the café down the street of my office at 2, I’ll send you the address.” 

“Fine.” 

\-- 

“Sam Winchester, you make this look so much more glamorous than it is.” Jaskier grumbled to himself, eyes red as he flipped through another stack of newspapers. 

Early this morning, Jaskier had walked down to the unemployment office to get that squared away as soon as possible. It seemed literally everyone else in the entire city and the next had the same idea, however, and the line was endless. He tried to pass the time by attempting to come up with lyrics for the tune in his head, but several irritable people yelled at him to be quiet, so he pouted in the corner instead. 

The town hall shared the same building, and when Jaskier’s place in line reached the doorway that lead to the archive room, he thought about the strange incident last night. A train of bored, wandering thought that eventually lead to: the doppler clearly targeted that specific man for some reason. It could have gone up to literally anyone in the city and taken their shape, he assumed; and just going by home location alone, he couldn’t be the richest or most prestigious man in the city. So why him? An intriguing thought he pondered for a while. Before he could decide against it, Jaskier gave up his spot in line and headed through the doorway to the archive room. After searching for the address of the house from last night in the archives, he found the owner’s name; Evan Daniels; jotted it down, and headed out to the library. Google had told him the man was a lawyer at the local firm Sandson and Co., but not much else. Searching library archives to see if he could dig up something on a random lawyer had seemed like a far more entertaining prospect than applying for unemployment at the time. 

Now, two hours later, which felt more like 37 hours and a cluster headache, Jaskier was starting to miss waiting in line. 

“Daniels, my friend; I’d have thought a man of your caliber would have more- oh, here we go.” Jaskier pulled out a newspaper, spotting the man’s name in small print. An 18-year-old issue with a large, black and white photo of a high school hockey team with the title ‘Hornets take home the cup’. Under the photo was a list of names, each member of the team, and their positions. Daniels was one of them, a forward; his youthful face still recognizable, to a degree. As he scanned the names, Jaskier realized that two of them looked strangely familiar, and he furrowed his brow. 

“Now, now, why would I know anyone from a high school hockey team that played 18 years ago in a country I didn’t even live in at the time?” He turned and headed over to the empty, nearby library computer and sat down, starting the login process. “Let’s see if we can find out, eh Google, my trusty friend?” 

The first name he searched out was Timothy Adler, and the result came back immediately; ‘Town Official Caught in Sex Scandal’. He remembered, now; he’d seen the news report on the tv when he was cleaning at the bar. He remembered snickering, because when wasn’t a scandal amusing? Getting over that, he searched out the other name, Tannis Clarke. Another, even more scandalous article came up this time; ‘Local Bank Owner Exposed Selling Account Information’. Now that had made big time news. He remembered his coworkers and other bar patrons vocalizing their worries about the safety of their accounts, talking about moving their money to a different bank. 

Jaskier stared at these articles with raised eyebrows. He felt his heart pumping, fingers tingling. He was onto something huge, and he knew it. It was at the tips of his fingers, he just needed to put it all together, to see the big picture. On a hunch, he started searching all the other names on the list. He felt dizzy with excitement as he scoured the internet. Of them all, four others had similar, career-ruining scandals to their names, and, according to the dates of the articles, all having occurred a day apart at the most. 

“The likeliness of this many members of the same hockey team having their careers ruined within days of each other is impossible.” Jaskier muttered to himself, chewing on a pen thoughtfully. “It’s clear that someone has set out to ruin each of these men for some reason. Perhaps the doppler is taking on their forms, and intentionally getting caught doing these things? Hmm...” 

As he searched deeper, patterns began to click in his head. Two of the victims worked at the same law firm as Daniels; Sanderson and Co. All six victims, including Adler and Clarke, lived in this city, the same city that the Hornets high school team originally played 18 years ago. None of the victims thus far had a surname starting with a letter beyond D; so Jaskier thought to list out the hockey members alphabetically by surname. He crossed off the name of each scandal victim thus far, noting that they indeed took up only some of the beginning of the list, as he suspected. He then searched each individual on Facebook, and took note of which original Hornets still lived in the city, and which had moved away. 

His blood froze when he looked at his notes. He’d cracked it. He’d figured out the pattern. He knew exactly how the doppler was choosing his victims. 

“Either I’m a genius, or this chapter has the convenient plot depth of literally every fictional crime show.” Jaskier hummed, trying to hold in his excitement before he got kicked out of the library for running around screaming ‘eureka’. Again. 

The doppler was running down the list of Hornets that still lived in the city, targeting them alphabetically, and wreaking havoc on their lives systematically. If it kept to this pattern, Evan Daniels was next to have his career destroyed. 

“Alright, now what the fuck do I do with this information if the only monster-hunters I know won’t listen to me?” Jaskier sighed, pinching between his eyes. The doppler already had the man’s body, it was only a matter of time before- 

That was when he glanced up and saw the latest news reel on the screen. 

‘Lawyer Evan Daniels Caught Accepting Bribes, Third Sanderson and Co. Case This Week’. 

“Oh _shit_.” Jaskier hissed, shakily clicking to open the article. He was a mixture of disappointed and elated as he skimmed the page. He felt sorry that he hadn’t gotten this information to anyone who could help in time, but also thrilled that he was _right_. He’d basically solved a whole case, all by himself. “I’m a motherfucking _detective_!” He couldn’t help but whisper, his voice an excited squeak. 

Focusing back on the list, Jaskier skimmed down to the next name that came after Daniels who still lived in the city. Samuel Eaheart; big-time CEO, richest man in the city, owned a tech company. If the doppler kept on its pattern, that man was about to have his life ruined in a day or two. 

Or, perhaps sooner than that. Upon a quick search Jaskier saw with alarm that Eaheart had a live press conference planned for tonight. If the doppler got to him before that, a press conference was the easiest medium to ruin someone’s career. All he had to do was say or do the very wrong thing on camera, live for the entire city to see, and it would all be over for Eaheart. 

Jaskier didn’t have much time. He needed to get into contact with Geralt _now_. But he knew Raully wasn’t going to give up his number. He needed another way to find him. 

An idea suddenly occurred to him.

Picking up his phone, Jaskier took a snapshot of the image of the hockey players in the newspaper, and then quickly dialed a number.

“Jaskier, I swear to all the gods in the universe-” Raully’s voice barked angrily the moment he’d picked up, hurting Jaskier’s ear. 

“Raully, no time to explain! I’m texting you a picture,” Jaskier hurriedly shot the image his way, “I need you to tell me if you recognize any of these boys as a person of the Valley. He’d be 18 years older by now.” 

“Boy, you better-” 

“Please, Raully, I swear on my mother’s soul I’ll leave you alone if you just answer me this one question!” Jaskier said desperately. Why was it always so hard to get anything out of anyone? 

He heard Raully sigh loudly on the other end, making the call crackle for a moment, and there was silence for several seconds before he finally spoke up, “Allen Sanderson. Had a run-in with a witch a decade ago. Comes to me now and then for protective potions.” 

“Thank you thank you thank you!” Jaskier sang as he leaped for joy, nearly tripping on the chair and falling backwards, but catching himself just in time. He could kiss the old man. Right on the lips.

“What’s this about, kid? What are you up-” 

Jaskier ended the call before the man could finish his question. He didn’t have time at all for explanations, that could come later. He quickly searched up and dialed the number for Sanderson and Co. 

“Sanderson’s office, how can I help you?” 

“Hello, yes, this is Julian, Allen’s nephew?” Jaskier put on a fake American accent. “Is my uncle in right now? I haven’t been able to reach him.” 

“Sorry hon, he’s out at lunch. He keeps his phone off on his breaks.” 

“It’s kind of a family emergency.” He tried to sound as anxious as possible. “It’s about grammy, she... she doesn’t have much time, I- I’m nearby, can you tell me where he went to lunch and I’ll go find him?” 

“Oh dear, um... alright, I think he said he was going to the Rivia Café...” 

After hanging up with the receptionist, Jaskier looked up the address to the café. It was halfway across town, he realized with a groan. He was going to have to run. Jaskier was not a runner. He grabbed his name list with a sigh, and went to reach for the newspaper. 

He blinked, freezing. Something stood out to him all of a sudden, in the picture. One of the boys on the team didn’t look like the others. Why was he only now seeing this? He glanced down at his list to check his notes on the associated name. 

It hit him like a brick to the face. There was something he’d entirely missed. Why hadn’t he seen it before? 

“Oh, _shit_!” 

Jaskier was bolting out the door before the librarian could tell him not to yell. 

\--   


“...and none of them have been acting strangely?” 

“Everyone’s acting strangely, Geralt.” Sanderson leaned back with a sigh, coffee cup between his hands. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. “With everything that’s happening, everyone’s on edge. Everyone’s paranoid; about themselves, about each other. Two people gave their notices today.” 

“Hm.” Geralt continued glancing back and forth between the list the man had given him and the map of the city, a bit dark to the eyes through his sunglasses. He’d circled the locations of all three victims so far, as well as the home locations of the rest of the Sanderson and Co. Employees, and was now trying to see if there was any pattern that might give him a hint as to who the doppler was going to target next. 

It was really a rather strange case; far stranger than usual. Dopplers were typically gentle-hearted creatures who kept to themselves, transforming only to survive. It was a rare occasion that one used its abilities for more nefarious means, and he’d never encountered one running a scheme of this magnitude. What was it after? What did it have to gain from the destruction of Sanderson and Co.? Geralt wasn’t being paid to find out why, only to stop the creature; but it didn’t stop him from wondering. 

All of a sudden, Geralt was hit with a familiar scent. 

“Really, Geralt; sunglasses indoors?” 

Geralt’s head whipped up just in time to see none other than Jaskier Pankratz dragging a chair over to the table, iced coffee in one hand. 

“How the fucking _hell_ did you find me?” Geralt growled at him, bad mood suddenly worsening. This hunt was hard enough without the obnoxious, overly eager man entering the picture. He truly thought he’d rid himself of Jaskier when he drove off on his motorcycle the other day. 

“Destiny, Geralt!” Jaskier grinned as he sat down, crossing his legs and reclining. “Destiny.” 

Sanderson blinked quizzically, “Who’s this?” 

“The White Wolf’s trusty sidekick.” Jaskier answered, sipping his iced coffee very loudly. 

“A puppy that followed me home,” Geralt corrected in that deep voice of his, “who will be sent straight to the pound if he doesn’t leave immediately.” He glared pointedly at Jaskier, though it didn't have the same effect with those shades. 

“Now, now; that’s no way to talk to the man who solved your little shapeshifter problem.” 

“Jaskier, this isn’t a game.” 

“Not with that attitude.” 

“Jaskier-” 

“Five minutes,” Jaskier held up his hand peacefully, “just give me five minutes, and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

Geralt’s eye twitched. “You have one.” 

Jaskier turned to face Sanderson, no time to lose, and spoke quickly. “The victims of the doppler. What’s your connection to them?” 

Sanderson blinked, “Uh, they work for me. At my law firm.” 

“Yes, but before that.” 

“Good friends?” 

“They were also on your highschool hockey team; the Hornets. Aye?” 

Sanderson looked startled, “Well- yes, but how did you...?” 

Jaskier reached into his messenger bag and pulled out the newspaper from the library, slapping it onto the table, then dropping his list of names on top. Tapping a finger on the list, Jaskier began, “These are all the members of the Hornets high school hockey team from 18 years ago that still live in the city. There have been four other victims of scandal within the same time frame as your employees, but you likely haven’t made the connection, considering they do not work at your law firm. All four of them were Hornets. All four defamed in career-ending scandals, just like your employees.” Jaskier leaned back again, draping an arm over the back of his chair, swirling his coffee with the other. “I cross-referenced the dates of each reported scandal, and I discovered a pattern. The doppler is running down the list alphabetically by surname. With this list,” Jaskier waved his coffee over the paper, “I can tell you exactly who its next victim will be.” 

Both Geralt and Sanderson stared at Jaskier, entirely dumbfounded. Geralt’s shock was only hidden by the sunglasses that shrouded his eyes. That dramatic moron who had walked straight into a werewolf the other night and honestly thought offering his body to Geralt was a completely normal way of saying thank you to a person seriously figured all this out by himself? 

“How... how did you figure all this out?” Sanderson asked, amazed. 

“I ah... watch too much TV.” Jaskier winced. Honestly, he’d primarily gotten lucky, but he wasn’t going to tell them that. 

“But why would a doppler be attacking my old high school hockey team?” Sanderson frowned, clasping his hands together. “It doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Suppose we’ll have to ask when we catch it.” Jaskier flashed a grin. “Anyway, if the pattern continues as it has, and there’s no reason it shouldn’t, the next victim will be Samuel Eaheart.” 

“Holy shit, ol’ Sammy?” Sanderson’s eyebrows went up. “He’s probably got the biggest career at stake out of all of us. I can find his address for you, Witcher. We do work for him often.” 

“Already have it.” Jaskier whipped out another piece of paper, handing it to Geralt, who took it slowly, and who had yet to stop staring with that perplexed expression furrowing his brows. “He’s holding a press conference tonight, so it’s likely the doppler will attack today. Sounds like a stakeout, eh?” 

Sanderson rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Well, if you’re right about all of this, the only other Hornets member at my office is me, so I guess I won’t have anything to worry about until that bastard gets further down the list.” He let out a sigh, glancing at Geralt. “Can I trust you to kill this asshole before it gets that far?” 

“The games stop with Eaheart,” Geralt grunted, words chosen carefully, “I promise you that.” 

Sanderson dipped his head, and moved to stand up from his seat. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Call me if you need anything.” With that, the man nodded in farewell and headed out of the café to return to his office.

"Just don't miss grammy's funeral." Jaskier muttered.

The moment the man was gone, Geralt turned on Jaskier, leaning over the table. “What are you playing at?” He hissed. 

Jaskier looked up at him innocently. “Whatever do you mean?” 

“You asked if you could come with me yesterday. I said no, and now you’re butting into my hunt.” 

“I don’t see where you’re going with this.” 

“I hunt alone, Jaskier. I told you that. Stay the fuck out of it.” 

Jaskier sighed dramatically, “‘Why _thank you_ , Jaskier, for doing all the legwork so that I would have the ability to stop another person’s life being ruined just in the nick of time.’” He had deepened his voice and put on a little growl to imitate the Witcher, “‘You’re _so_ clever, Jaskier, not at all an idiot like I keep saying, and also _very_ attractive. I could just eat you up, really. Come over here so I can take a little bite-’” 

“You’re insufferable.” Geralt groaned, leaning back against his seat and looking up at the ceiling, feeling a headache coming on. 

“That’s debatable.” 

“It’s really not.” Geralt glanced back down at him. “It’s a fact.” 

“An unsupported theory at best.” Jaskier sipped his coffee. “Anyway, there’s something else you should know about this case.” 

Geralt sighed and rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses, “And what’s that?” 

“I know who hired the doppler.” He paused for dramatic effect. 

Geralt raised his eyebrows a bit, lips pressed together; but he said nothing, waiting for him to continue. 

Jaskier leaned over and pointed out a face on the newspaper. “Andrew Barley. He’s the only one still living in the city whose name was skipped over in the alphabetical order. The victim list started before him, and continued after him.” 

“I suppose that is suspicious, but hardly solid evidence. What would he even gain from ruining the reputations of his old hockey team?” This whole Criminal Minds routine was hurting his head. This was not how Geralt handled hunts. Ever. They were either simple, or he _made_ them simple.

“ _Revenge_ , Geralt.” Jaskier said dramatically. “Andrew was bullied by his hockey team in high school, and now he’s finally getting his revenge.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“I was a scrawny, loudly bisexual theater club kid, I know the look.” 

“Hm.” 

“He probably got through it by telling himself he was going to be better than them one day, the lies people tell all bullied kids.” Jaskier theorized, a bit of a faraway look in his bright blue eyes. “Well, he’s a low-grade mechanic now, still a nobody; and most of his old team mates have prestigious jobs. That’s got to be frustrating. So, he wants to take them down from their pedestals, ruin them. What better revenge is there?” He almost sounded jealous, like he wished he’d thought of it. 

Geralt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He couldn’t deny, it sounded rather plausible. When he raised his sunglasses to his head and looked closely at the old picture of the hockey team, he noticed that Andrew was the only kid not smiling. His eyes had a dark, sad look to them, and he was smaller than all the other boys. He felt something soften in him, just a little. Like Jaskier, he recognized the look of an outcast. “Why didn’t you ask Sanderson to confirm this?” 

“If he knew Andrew was behind all this, it’s likely he’d go right after him.” Jaskier pointed out. “I thought it would be better for us as unbiased individuals to take care of the situation instead.” 

Sounded weirdly mature and foresighted of the young man, Geralt couldn’t help but think. “There is no _us_ , Jaskier.” Geralt rumbled, however. “This information is...” he had to force out the words, “helpful. But I’ll be taking it from here. 

Jaskier shrugged and said, “Yeah, I know,” before taking another sip of his coffee. 

Geralt blinked, surprised that it was that easy. “...really?” 

“Yes, yes. I’ve done my part, eh?” Jaskier waved his hand. “Carry on, then, with your... Witchering. Take all the papers.” 

Geralt stared at Jaskier, looked him up and down for a long while as the younger man took out a notebook and pen, putting his feet up on the table and beginning to write. The notebook papers, he noticed, were patterned with silly little music notes with faces. 

Perhaps he’d been wrong in his first impressions. Apparently, there was rather more to Jaskier than met the eye.

Not that it mattered. Geralt shook his head, dropped his sunglasses back in place and took the papers, moving to stand up. He’d be gone tomorrow morning, and the clingy aspiring musician would be well behind him. No use trying to figure him out now. 

Jaskier watched Geralt stride out of the café from the corner of his eye, humming the tune that had been in his head, and continued to write. 

\-- 

Geralt had been patrolling the house for hours, with absolutely no sign of the doppler. 

His medallion, typically an easy way to detect monsters, was all but useless against a doppler. But Geralt had been around enough of them to understand their scent, a slight tinge of not-quite human. It took focus, but he’d know if a doppler was around. So far, it hadn’t shown its face, and it was starting to get later. Perhaps Jaskier’s lead had been nothing more than a fantasy fueled by too much crime-solving TV. He was starting to feel ridiculous for listening to him. 

Still, it was more of a lead than Geralt had right now, so he decided to keep at it until the press conference had passed at least. 

He was just resting back against his motorcycle, sunglasses away for now while he needed his sight unimpeded, when an increasingly-familiar scent appeared again. When he recognized it, Geralt raised his eyes to the heavens, silently cursing all the gods in the universe for this purgatory they’d thrown him in, and turned to face the approaching figure. He grit his teeth as the slender man strolled up to him casually. 

“So, how’s the stakeout going?” Jaskier asked, voice chipper, seemingly oblivious to the look in Geralt’s golden eyes that screamed ‘I’m going to murder you and stuff you in a werewolf’s belly where I should have left you in the first place’. 

“You’re some form of long-range leech I cannot pry from my skin.” Geralt grumbled. 

“Well, I _am_ rather good at sucking.” Jaskier stopped at Geralt’s side and gazed over at the house of Samuel Eaheart. “Any sign of our friend yet?” 

“Nothing. I fear your little lead might be a dead end. Now, what are you doing here?” 

“It’s a stakeout, everyone knows you need two sets of eyes to watch in opposite directions.” 

“I’m a Witcher. I can see, smell and hear everything in a far wider radius than you can detect with your eyes.” 

“You know what you also need for a stakeout?” Jaskier lifted a bag of mini Chips Ahoy in the air and wiggled it. “Snacks!” He thought for a moment, glancing at the bag. “Although, I may have eaten half of it already, as I haven’t had anything other than wine and coffee since noon yesterday.” 

“I’m going to have to tie you to a tree when I leave this city, aren’t I?” 

“I do love some classic rope play.” Jaskier tucked the cookies back in his messenger bag and crossed his arms, “So, how can you tell if someone is a doppler?” 

Geralt sighed and focused his attention back on the house. “I can smell them. And if you surprise them, their eyes flash white for a moment.” 

“So, hypothetically, if one were to go speak to Eaheart and startle him somehow, and his eyes flashed white; we could assume he is a doppler?” 

“Yes, but I haven’t detected any- what are you doing.” 

Geralt hadn’t finished his sentence yet when Jaskier started for the house. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt hissed. 

The young man was already at the front door and ringing the bell by the time Geralt could even think to sprint after him. 

“I’m going to kill him.” Geralt groaned to himself, positioning himself behind a tree to watch. 

The man who came to the door was none other than Samuel Eaheart, clearly in the middle of getting ready for his conference, currently fixing his tie. “Yes?” 

“Afternoon, sir; I was wondering if you’ve seen my dog?” Jaskier wrung his hands, bringing the ‘anxious dog owner’ routine home, “Little gray mutt, answers to Peanut Butter?” 

“I haven’t been outside much today, I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you.” 

Jaskier looked down, crestfallen, “Oh... he’s been missing for hours. I’m so worried, he’s my little sister’s best friend and I just don’t know what she’ll do without him...” 

Eaheart gave him a sympathetic look, "I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Who should I call if I spot him?” 

Jaskier gave him a sad smile, “The Alfred residence, I'll write down our number. I’m Julian by the way.” He reached out a hand to shake, “I truly appreciate it, sir.” 

The man smiled and went to accept the shake, “Just call me Sam- oh!” Eaheart jolted in shock, and Jaskier stared into his eyes intently. To both his relief and disappointment, the man’s eyes remained entirely dark brown. 

Jaskier ripped his hand back, “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry!” He held up his hand, which had a shock buzzer attached at the wrist. “I’ve been trying so hard to distract my little sister with some laughs, I entirely forgot to take it off!” 

Eaheart laughed heartily, “That’s quite alright, I almost forgot those things existed!” He snapped his fingers, “Say, I actually have the numbers of a few people on the neighborhood watch, why don’t we make a few calls and see if anyone’s seen your dog?” 

Jaskier blinked, “Oh, uh, yes that sounds like a wonderful idea!” He glanced to the side to look for Geralt, but the man was nowhere to be seen. “If, uh, it’s not inconvenient for you? I can always come back-” 

Eaheart smiled warmly and planted a hand on his shoulder, pulling him forward towards the door, “I’ve got an hour, but I’m sure we’ll find Peanut Butter in no time!” 

Geralt watched, brows furrowed, as Jaskier and Eaheart disappeared into the house. He also hadn’t spotted any white eyes when Jaskier shocked the man, which proved without a doubt that he wasn’t the doppler; but something didn’t feel right. He decided to creep around the house to look through the living room window that he’d spotted as being unshaded earlier. When he glanced through it, he had a bit of a shock.

“Ah, fuck.” 

Eaheart and Jaskier stood right in the center of the room, facing the window. The older man was staring right back at Geralt, a smirk playing on his lips. He had one arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, the other holding a gun to the boy’s head. Jaskier looked sheepishly at Geralt. 

Geralt let out a long sigh and started for the front door. 

“Make sure it’s nice and tight. Wouldn’t want our dear Witcher friend unsecured, now would we?” 

Eaheart, or the doppler rather, had its gun trained on Jaskier’s head as the young man tied Geralt to the chair as instructed. Nearby, the real Eaheart was tied to his own chair, mouth gagged and looking terrified. 

“We smelled you the other night,” The doppler grinned at Jaskier. “watching as we ‘got changed’, you scoundrel.” 

“You make it sound scandalous.” Jaskier muttered, scrunching his nose.

“We didn’t think anything of it, until we smelled you again today, recognized your scent. We heard the White Wolf was in town, but we didn’t think it would be so easy to find his weakness.” The doppler giggled. 

“So, this is all your fault then.” Geralt grumbled at Jaskier as the young man tied his wrist down to the armrest. 

“How was I supposed to know all you magical people have the noses of a bloodhound?” Jaskier snapped back. 

“By _learning_ a few things before you jump in over your head.” 

“Hey, I’m all here and ready to take notes for Monsters 101, but apparently being terribly grumpy is a mandatory personality trait in all Valley folk, and no one wants to answer my questions.” 

“Aw, a Valley pup, then?” The doppler laughed, “How cute. Your turn then, puppy. In the other chair.” 

As the doppler worked to tie up Jaskier, the chairs back-to-back, Geralt asked, “Why couldn’t I smell you?” He glanced at the doppler out of the corner of his eye. He didn't bother asking about the eyes, he'd noticed the tiny lines around the man's irises that indicated contacts. Undoubtedly they were colored contacts, which would effectively hide all signs of white flashes.

“Our little secret.” The doppler winked. “We don’t share trade secrets.” 

Geralt grumbled. This made future hunts a hell of a lot more complicated. He supposed he would have to use Jaskier’s method next time. Refusing doppler cases wasn’t on the table in a world where less and less people were turning to Witchers for help. He would be forced to adapt.

“I have to say, I admire your style.” Jaskier glanced up at the doppler. “You have a gift for theatrics.” 

“We borrowed the skin of a performer, once. It is an amusing way to see the world.” 

“I suppose Andrew must be greatly enjoying all this, eh?” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt hissed. If the doppler knew they knew the truth, it might be less inclined to keep them alive. 

The doppler raised its eyebrows, “Well, well, aren’t you a clever little puppy? How did you know about our dear Andrew?” That confirmed, without a doubt now, that Jaskier had been completely correct. He internally pumped his fist in triumph. 

“My little secret.” Jaskier smirked. “I don’t share trade secrets.” 

The doppler belted a laugh, “ _Very_ clever puppy. We _like_ you. Perhaps, when we come back tonight, we will see what makes that funny little brain tick.” 

Jaskier hesitated, glancing back at Geralt, “Can it do that?” 

“Dopplers gain the memories and abilities of those they imitate.” Geralt grunted back, then glanced up at the doppler. “I’m not sure I can live in a world with two Jaskiers. Please put me out of my misery, if that’s what you intend to do.” 

“Hey, if it got _all_ of my abilities, it would be the best threesome of your life.” 

The doppler, having finished tying Jaskier securely to the chair, headed over to the TV and switched it on. “Since you appreciate our methods so much, puppy, we do hope you will enjoy our upcoming performance. Keep dear Samuel company in this trying time, hm?” Its grin was predatory, aimed at the gagged Eaheart, who tried to say something through the cloth, but was too muffled to make out. It pulled a set of cardstock papers out of its pocket and waved them in the air, “We’ve planned quite the speech, quite the spectacle.” 

“Make it grand, as it will be your last!” Jaskier called out dramatically as the doppler straightened out its suit and headed down the hall towards the front door. “The White Wolf has your scent now!” 

Geralt sighed exasperatedly as the doppler closed the door behind him. 

“This isn’t what I was imagining when I mentioned rope play.” Jaskier sighed tiredly. 

“It’s half of what I was imagining.” Geralt muttered. 

The pair had been trying to wiggle out of the bindings for half an hour now, and Jaskier had made no progress. He was getting rope burns on his arms and neck from the struggle. That was going to make his roommates snicker later. 

Suddenly, he heard a snap and twisted his head as far as it went to see Geralt ripping the ropes from his arms. “Geralt?” 

Geralt took the tiny dagger he’d finally managed to reach from its hidden place in his jacket after a while of struggling and started cutting his other arm free. After a short time, all the ropes fell away, and he got to his feet. No time to waste, he started for the hall. 

“Geralt? Geralt! What about me?” Jaskier called out in a panic, struggling against the ropes. 

“You’ve caused enough trouble as it is,” Geralt spat over his shoulder, “you can stay here.” With that, the man was gone. 

Jaskier sighed and sank back down, glancing back at the TV. They’d been advertising the press conference off and on between reports, people speculating what Eaheart might be announcing tonight. “Well, Sammy; either you’re about to watch yourself do something _very_ embarrassing for the world to see, or you’re about to watch yourself be punched out for the world to see. Which, I suppose, is also rather embarrassing.” 

Eaheart let out a mournful groan. 

\-- 

The wind whipped Geralt in the face as he sped down the street, full-throttle, Roach roaring like an angry tiger. He weaved between cars, taking shortcuts where he could. The press conference was going to happen any moment, and Geralt had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. The doppler, as Eaheart, would be surrounded by security. He couldn’t fight his way through and take the man down live on camera; now that would be a spectacle for the ages, and Geralt would be branded as a terrorist. Perhaps, if he could get close enough, if he was hidden enough, he could hit the creature with a sleeping dart. 

“Fuck.” Geralt swore as his bike skid to a stop. 

The press conference was being held on the staircase of the massive building that Eaheart’s company worked out of, a temporary podium set at the top. A sea of reporters surrounded his immediate proximity, and below them, far more regular people watched curiously. The doppler was already up on the podium, already speaking. Geralt put Roach in park and took off in a run, shouldering his way through the crowd. 

“...company has big plans regarding this grand city, and it’s people.” The doppler grinned, eyes twinkling maliciously. “You’ve entrusted us with your information, with your business, and now we would like to repay that trust.” 

To his surprise, Geralt caught the eye of a familiar face in the crowd as he was about to shove past. He grabbed the man by the shirt, who yelped in surprise, and growled in his ear. “Andrew. Make it stop.” 

Andrew Barley, 18 years older than in his picture, looked like he’d actually aged 30 years. Stress and hard labor do that to a person. His eyes were wider than a deer’s in the headlights. He gazed at Geralt for a long while, before whispering. “It’s too late. It can’t be stopped.” His face hardened. “Kill me if you like, they’re all getting what they deserve.” 

Geralt was considering starting a scene, yelling a warning about a gun or something to get the crowd to panic, when the doppler flipped to the next speech card. Glancing at it, the creature looked genuinely surprised, silent for a moment. After the typical white cardstock, this piece of paper looked very different. Out of place. “Uh... well, Eahart Industries, and I myself, plan to give back to the good people.” It blinked. “We plan to fund the city’s largest infrastructure projects, focusing especially on low-income areas.” The crowd went wild at that. Erupting in Geralt’s sensitive ears, he winced. 

It was through this chaos that he spotted it. His brows raised immediately, blood going cold. 

The paper in the doppler’s hands was notebook paper, covered in a pattern of silly little musical notes with faces. 

“...that son of a bitch.” Geralt breathed. 

“I would also like to announce a new yearly event, the New Beginning project.” The doppler raised his eyebrows, clearly reading this for the first time. “Every year, we will be selecting a citizen of the city below a certain income at random to receive a spectacular prize.” 

Andrew looked absolutely mystified. “I didn’t tell him to say this.” 

“No, a little lark sang it in his ear.” Geralt muttered. 

“The New Beginning prize will pay for a full ride to college in whichever degree the winner chooses, as well as an additional 100,000 dollars. And now, the moment you’ve been waiting for, this year’s winner!” The doppler was smiling now, pausing for effect. “Andrew Barley!” 

Geralt glanced at Andrew, releasing his shirt. The man looked stunned beyond belief as the crowd blew up around him, those nearby putting their hands on his shoulders in congratulations. Geralt shook his head and backed away, strongly fighting against the stream of bodies, pushing his way out of the crowd. 

The press conference over, the doppler pulled its tie loose, sighing as it walked back to the car. 

“It’s a shame you didn’t think of that in the first place.” Came a gruff voice. 

The doppler glanced over to see Geralt leaning against the side of a building, shrouded in shadow. One of Eaheart’s bodyguards moved to put himself between them, but the doppler waved him aside and walked over to the Witcher. “Undoubtedly the better path, but certainly less amusing.” 

“Will Andrew be satisfied with that,” Geralt looked the doppler in the eye, “or am I going to have to kill you?” 

“ _We_ will be satisfied with that.” The doppler dipped its head. “We never had any intention of taking this to the grave. Now that a Witcher is on our tail, we will kindly take our leave.” 

“See that you do. I’d rather not have to come back and kill you.” 

“Fair’s fair.” 

“Why did you do it, anyway?” Geralt asked, curiosity getting the better of him. “The coin so good even a doppler couldn’t resist?” 

“Oh, we didn’t do it for coin.” 

“Then why?” 

The doppler turned to gaze out at the city, slight smile on its face. “Andrew’s always been an outcast. Our kind and other non-human folk; we understand this well.” It glanced at Geralt, knowing look in its eyes. “We know you do too.” 

Geralt remained silent at that. 

“Perhaps you ought to stick to hunting actual monsters, eh Witcher?” It gave him a little mock salute, turned on its heel and headed back for its entourage. 

Geralt watched the small crowd leave for a short while before dropping his sunglasses over his eyes, turning and heading in the opposite direction. 

\-- 

It was dark out, but the Rivia café was open late, ensuring the workaholics employed on this street were supplied with caffeine at all times. Geralt pushed the door open and headed inside. He strode down to the last booth in the line, and slid in. Opposite to him, Jaskier was lounging with one leg up on the booth seat, papers spread across the table, two coffees in front of him. He pushed one of them towards Geralt without so much as a glance up from his writing. 

“How did you do it?” Geralt finally asked, accepting the coffee and bringing it to his lips. 

“What theater kid doesn’t dabble in magic at some point?” Jaskier said as though it were obvious, finally setting his notebook down to take a sip of his own coffee and glancing up at Geralt. “It’s been a few years, but I’m still capable of a little sleight of hand.” 

“Hm.” 

“So, now that the doppler’s taken care of, suppose you’ll be heading off?” Jaskier twirled his pen in his fingers. “Places to be, monsters to kill?” 

“Once I receive my payment for the job, yes.” 

“How’s that work, then? Check addressed to ‘Geralt the White Wolf’?” 

“Bitcoin.” 

Jaskier blinked. “Oh. Huh. Bitcoin, eh? Bit... _Coin_...” He was suddenly lost in thought, hand on his chin. “Say, what do you think about having a song written about you?” 

Geralt gave him an exasperated look. 

“Not like that.” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Nothing silly. I’ve cast you as a monster-slaying hero.” Jaskier sat back, picking up his notebook and glancing over it. “I’ve decided to try my hand at writing songs about grand adventures, and I don’t mean in bed.” 

“Good for you.” 

“I feel it’ll be something rather different to what’s on the radio these days. I mean, who writes songs about epic fantasy adventures anymore?” 

“Metal bands?” 

“I mean in _my_ genre.” 

“I don’t know, I don’t listen to idiot.” 

“I can’t really comment on that until I’ve looked through your music library.” 

“Never going to happen.” Geralt moved to slide back out of the booth, taking the coffee with him, standing up and putting his sunglasses up for a moment. “Stay out of trouble, Jaskier.” 

“Mm, there’s no real help for it, trouble is just _so_ sexually attracted to me.” 

Geralt couldn’t help it when the edge of his lip curved up just a little at that. He’ll never admit it in a million years, but the idiot had grown on him, if just a little. He might even miss him a teeny bit, when he's long gone.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again, one day.” Jaskier said, looking up at him with those bright blue eyes. 

“Probably not.” Geralt said honestly. 

“Can’t avoid destiny, Geralt.” Jaskier winked, then turned back to his notebook. 

Geralt shook his head, dropped his sunglasses, and headed out of the café. 

\-- 

It was morning again, early; the golden light drizzling across the yellowed lawn of Raully’s establishment, birds fighting over the early insects. Geralt stretched as he strode out to his bike. The old man really needed to invest in some less springy mattresses. Today was going to be the start of a very long ride; the closest potential hunt many towns away. He’d rather not be sore for it. 

His ears soon detected an obnoxious buzzing, increasing in loudness. Geralt glanced in its direction, squinting his eyes to make out the approaching object. When it got close enough to recognize, Geralt let out a long sigh. Why was he not even the slightest bit surprised? 

Jaskier rode up on the tiniest, trashiest motorbike Geralt had ever seen in his life, chipped paint in obnoxious colors. All the noises it was making were wrong, and the engine sounded like it was straining to move at all. The young man brought it to a shuddering stop before planting the rusted kickstand, having to kick it several times for the thing to move. 

“What the fucking hell _is_ that thing?” Geralt asked when the man hopped off, wandering over to inspect the monstrosity. 

Jaskier looked up at him and shrugged, “I don’t know, the only thing I could afford for a Benjamin and a blow job? What part of ‘starving artist’ do you not understand?” 

Geralt noticed that the young man had a ukulele case and a large duffel bag tied to the back of the bike, and his messenger bag looked stuffed to the brim. He bit back a groan. He knew exactly why Jaskier was here, and he was starting to realize there was absolutely no way of stopping him, short of actually killing him. Hell, even that might not be enough. 

“Jaskier, you may as well have bought a moped.” Geralt said instead of addressing the issue. 

“Well, you weren’t going to let me on Roach with you, and I can’t imagine you’d sully her with a side car-” 

“Don’t even _suggest_ that.” 

“-so I had to find _some_ way of keeping up with you!” 

“I’ll be towns away by the time you manage to get that little thing started.” 

“First of all, great things come in small packages-” 

“Is that what you tell the ladies?” 

“Second of all, it would be _very_ counterproductive to leave your manager behind.” 

Geralt, lips pressed together for a moment at that, tried to hold back a laugh. “So, you’re my manager now?” 

“I manage your clients!” 

“Do you?” 

“I’m going to, as soon as I figure out how to reach them!” Jaskier insisted enthusiastically. “I’m working on it!” 

Geralt sighed tiredly, pinching between his eyes. “Jaskier... you’re not a monster hunter, and I work alone. Do we need to go over this again?” 

“Come ooon, we made a great team, don’t deny it!” 

“I could have handled it myself.” 

“Sure, 6 more scandals and a dead doppler later.” Jaskier crossed his arms and looked down with a sigh. “Look, Geralt. I’ve been fired, and I’m blacklisted from half the bars in the city. There's nothing for me here, and it’s time for me to move on.” He glanced back up at him, blue eyes hopeful. “At the very least, perhaps you could allow me to tag along until I find my next opportunity? You know, just to keep me out of trouble?” 

Geralt gazed back at him evenly, giving that a long thought. 

He wasn’t a man for change, having done things a certain way for a very long time. He told himself he enjoyed solitude; the long rides, the silence, the lack of engagement. He told himself the most interaction he needed was a sword between a monster’s ribs or a one-night stand.

But, deep down, under the mutations, the unhealthy lifestyle, and the years on his shoulders; Geralt was still human. Humans weren’t made for eternal solitude. For silence. For never establishing relationships. It was easier not to get attached, always had been; but this goddamn ball of energy ran in and sank his hooks in. 

They do say introverts make friends by getting adopted by extroverts. 

“Fine.” Geralt eventually said, gruffly. Jaskier looked shocked at that. “But if you slow me down, I'm not going to wait up for you.” With that, he turned and started walking towards Roach. 

Jaskier felt a floodgate of emotions burst within him. Excitement and fear prevalent, adrenaline rushing so fast it made him dizzy. He shifted his bag on his shoulder and hurriedly scrambled to get back on his new ride. He gazed out to the horizon as he worked to start the dinky thing. The road stretched on as far as his eye could see, and the world seemed so sunny, large and hopeful all of a sudden. There was nothing stopping him now, nothing holding him back. Just a big, wide _everything_ ahead of him.

The road trip of his life was about to begin. 


	3. The Devil is a Petty Thief

Despite his initial statement, Geralt did not, in fact, leave Jaskier behind for slowing him down. 

Jaskier may not have noticed it were he riding a real motorcycle, but the fact that Geralt kept with him despite the underpowered pace of the cheap little bike made it undeniable that the man was slowing down for him. Jaskier didn’t say anything on it, for fear of jinx; but it did warm his heart that the grouchy, serious monster hunter who had absolutely no reason to keep him around was increasing his travel time for Jaskier’s sake. 

As much as he appreciated it, however, Jaskier _was_ starting to get travel weary. 

They’d pulled off to the side of the road a few times to relieve themselves, but otherwise the only break Jaskier had gotten from the bumpy, uncomfortable seat of his junky motorbike was when they stopped for lunch at a fast food place. They’d ridden all day long, and it was starting to near dusk. His backside was beyond sore by this point. But he hadn’t complained once, and stayed positive by coming up with verse as the monotonous landscape rolled by for hours. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier called out, pulling up beside the man, glancing over at him when he felt safe enough not to have to look at the road for a moment. “Geralt! Come on, I know you can hear me, with those… Witcher ears.” 

Geralt glanced over at him, wind whipping his long hair across his face. Jaskier couldn’t see his eyes through those sunglasses, but he imagined the man was glaring as usual. 

“Don’t you think we should find a place to stay? Or do you usually ride all night long?” God, Jaskier hoped not. He was a mere human, and his body and mind wouldn’t survive that. He'd fall asleep and crash, for certain.

Geralt looked thoughtful for a moment, then gestured for Jaskier to follow him. After a couple more miles, the man turned into a tiny, dirt lot hidden by the forest and parked Roach on the far end. Jaskier followed suit, blinking quizzically as the man killed the engine and put down the kickstand. 

“Ehm, what are we doing?” Jaskier asked, working to park his own bike. Had Geralt finally decided to murder him? Dump his body in the woods never to be found?

“Finding a place to camp.” Geralt responded gruffly, taking his duffel bag from his bike and starting off across the lot. 

“Wait, camp?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows in alarm. “We’re… not going to find a motel?” His Supernatural fantasy was getting dimmer by the moment. 

“Jaskier, if I stayed in a motel every night, I wouldn’t have a dollar to my name.” 

“Oh… right, fair point.” Jaskier quickly grabbed his own duffel bag and ran to catch up. “It’s just ah, I don’t have any camping equipment, like a sleeping bag-” 

“Not my problem.” 

Jaskier bit his lip as he followed Geralt into the woods. “Well, I suppose I can figure something out for tonight, and we can stop at a camping store tomorrow…” Well, at least it wasn’t too cold out. 

Jaskier sat on a log, chewing on some jerky in lieu of not having anything fresh to eat, as he watched Geralt take a sleeping roll, compacted by one of those vacuum bags, out of his duffel and spread it on the flattest ground he could find. It was a decent-sized one, plush as the air returned to the stuffing. Jaskier suddenly felt a surge of excitement at an idea. 

“Say, that sleeping bag looks big enough for two people.” He noted out loud. A flashing daydream of sharing a small, comfortable space with the handsome, well-muscled man. Perhaps, in the night, finding himself wrapped up in his arms- 

“Not happening.” 

Jaskier deflated. Well, it was a long shot. 

He sighed and went into his bag and pulled out his longest coat. It was a rather nice one, and he’d prefer not to get it dirty, but he supposed it was nothing a day at the dry cleaner couldn’t fix. He lay it on the ground and placed his duffel bag at the top, full of his clothes, to be used as a pillow. 

As Jaskier lay down, he could feel every root, rock and plant stem under his body. He knew he wasn’t going to sleep well, and he’d be very sore tomorrow; but honestly? He wasn’t really thinking about that right now. He couldn’t help but smile up at the stars twinkling down at him through the trees. It had been too long since he’d seen a proper star-filled sky, after so many years in the city. He felt a warmth rising in his chest as he was hit by a childhood memory; throwing a tarp over a tree branch as a makeshift tent in his backyard, curling up in the pile of definitely-not-outdoor blankets and pillows, the wind blowing his ‘tent’ away in the night. So cold, but the sky was so beautiful. The world melted away and he was floating through space, spinning between the stars. 

Space was so terribly cold. 

Geralt drifted half-awake a few hours later, turning over on his other side. His sharp senses detected a fluttering sound. He blinked his eyes open, glancing over at the companion he’d blissfully forgotten while he dreamed. Jaskier, though Geralt could sense he was asleep, was curled up into a little ball and shivering. The slight breeze had cooled the night as it had gotten later, but Geralt was comfortable in his thick sleeping bag. He sighed as he peeled the fabric back and sat up, reaching for his duffel bag. 

There was a part of Geralt that had hoped the long, nonstop ride followed by the cold, hard fact of sleeping on the ground rather than a soft bed would make Jaskier realize that this wasn’t the glamorous lifestyle he imagined. That, in realizing this, he might get back on his bike and ride to the nearest town and be out of his hair for good. But somehow, despite the promise of this as a daily routine, the man remained entirely chipper and willing. He’d rambled on about the stars and the trees until he’d blessedly fallen asleep with his mouth still running. How the fuck someone could stay so godsdamned positive despite so much discomfort was beyond Geralt. 

Now, Geralt found himself stepping over to the shivering ball and draping a blanket over him, silently cursing the idiot for not having enough self-preservation to just go the fuck home. 

\-- 

Jaskier woke up wrapped up in the blanket like a burrito, every bone and muscle in his body burning. Spine stiff, neck aching. He knew he must be covered in bruises from the roots and rocks under the thin coat layer, and he felt every one of them. Geralt was busy packing up his own sleeping bag as Jaskier untangled himself. When he was lucid enough, he blinked down at the blanket, trying to remember where it came from. 

“Did I miss an adorably cliché moment?” Jaskier asked through a yawn. 

“I couldn’t sleep through your teeth chattering.” Geralt grumbled as he pushed the sleeping roll into its sack. 

Jaskier smirked to himself as he folded up the blanket. Geralt was totally warming up to him, he decided. It was only a matter of time.

As they were loading everything back onto their bikes, every movement burning in his sore bones, Jaskier realized this was going to be a long, painful ride today. His bike was rough enough with its poor suspension rattling him around, nevermind with bruises already there. He was starting to dread it when he suddenly recalled stealing a bottle of what he assumed, at the time, were opiate-based pain pills when Raully wasn’t looking, and he rummaged through his bag for them. Considering the bottle was unlabeled, he had no idea what they were exactly; but he tossed them back with a sip of water anyway. 

As they started their journey once again, Jaskier breathed in the cool, fresh morning air filled his lungs, warm numbness filling his veins. The aches and sores disappearing like waking from a bad dream. He felt great.

Until an hour later when he pulled over to the side of the road to vomit because you’re supposed to take those pills with food, but after that he felt great again. 

“What do you think, blue or purple?” 

“Black or cameo, it’s called stealth camping for a reason.” 

“Well, that’s terribly drab.” Jaskier frowned as he browsed the sleeping bags. In the end, he spitefully selected the bright purple one. Sleeping bags weren’t cheap, he was going to get the one he wanted. Witcher be damned.

When they’d arrived in town hours later, they’d come across a sporting goods shop and Jaskier convinced Geralt to stop in. He hadn’t been in a sporting goods store since he was a child, and part of him hoped he’d find himself surrounded by handsome lumberjacks; but alas, at 11:30am on a Wednesday, the place was full of old men purchasing fishing bait and ammo. Not even a silver fox in sight. 

Geralt sighed, glancing through the knife selection through his sunglasses while he waited for Jaskier to run around like a child at the Disney store. 

“…hear about the hit on the hospital?” 

“Yeah, nurses were saying it was the devil again. Poor girls, guess that’s what the late shift does to you. Seeing devils.” 

Geralt turned to glance at the men he’d just overheard, ears prickling. He stalked over and planted a hand on the first man’s shoulder to get his attention. “What was that about a devil?” He asked gruffly. 

The older man blinked up at him, and Geralt could smell unease emanating from him. Nothing he wasn’t used to. It was rare to come upon anyone who wasn't intimidated by him. “Uhh… they’re saying some junkie in a devil mask or something broke into the hospital a few days ago, stole a bunch of drugs and ran off.” The man stammered.

“Where’s the hospital?” 

The other man nervously gave him directions. Geralt nodded and then walked past them, leaving the two quizzical men staring after him. 

Jaskier was at the checkout counter, purchasing his obnoxious sleeping bag and very important S’mores supplies, from which he glanced over to watch the white-haired biker head to the door. “Geralt? Where are you going?” 

Geralt didn’t bother responding, just pushed the door open and strode out. Jaskier rushed to pay for his things, took the bag and ran out after the Witcher. 

It didn’t take Geralt very long to find the path. A set of hidden runes scratched into a fence that indicated the direction of the next set of runes that indicated the direction of the next. Eventually, he found himself front of a CBD and botanicals shop, a rune that meant ‘Valley’ incorporated into the logo. He pushed the door open and went inside, Jaskier at his heels. 

“Good idea, maybe some CBD will help you feel less angry.” Jaskier said chipperly, glancing through the bottles of vape juice. “They make it in birthday cake flavor, you know!” The man started rattling on, and Geralt tuned him out with a roll of his eyes, heading for the counter. 

The cashier took one look at Geralt, and stuck his thumb towards the door behind him. “She’s upstairs, first room on the left.” 

Geralt dipped his head slightly in thanks, not bothering to ask who ‘she’ was, and headed towards the door. 

“Oh, is this a front?” Jaskier asked, hopping up just behind him. 

“Quiet.” Geralt responded gruffly, pushing the door open. Thankfully, he didn’t sense anyone else in the store, but the boy needed to learn not to say such things in places like this. Valley folk didn't need anyone showing up to search their spaces upon a concerned tip of a simple patron overhearing such a thing.

“Does every town have a secret Valley headquarters?!” Jaskier whispered excitedly. 

“Many of them have a healer, who tends to become a communication hub.” Geralt explained with a sigh as the pair headed down the hallway. “Not many other ways to get into contact with other Valley folk.” 

“Oh? You don’t have like, a secret Valley Facebook group?” 

“No.” 

“Hm. Perhaps someone ought to change that.” Jaskier thought on it as he followed Geralt up the creaking staircase. Geralt turned and headed into the room the cashier had mentioned, the door having been slightly ajar, and found an older woman inside, crushing herbs with a mortar and pestle. The room reminded Jaskier of the one he’d first woken up in a few days prior, covered in old books and herbs. The jars of guts didn’t even concern him anymore. 

The healer glanced up at her visitors, her silver eyebrows rising with surprise when she recognized Geralt as he lifted his sunglasses to his head. “A Witcher, eh? Been a long time since I’ve seen one of your kind.” She stood up straight, wiping her hands on her apron. 

"Not surprising.” Geralt stopped in front of her, putting his hands in his leather jacket pockets. “We’re not welcome in many places anymore.” He tilted his head a bit, unspoken question. The healer didn’t miss it, eyes quick, nodding. 

“Aye, the younger generations don’t understand everything Witchers have done for the Valley.” She reached a hand out, and Geralt accepted it to shake. “But many of us ol’ grizzled folk haven’t forgotten yet. Name’s Jen. What can I do for you, Witcher?” 

“Heard talk of a ‘devil’” Geralt explained. “Thought there might be a contract for me.” 

“Devil-? Ohh yes, the hospital hit from a few days ago.” 

“That’s right.” 

“We’re not sure what it is,” Jen sighed, folding her arms, “but the Knights think the local elves summoned it.” 

“Elves?” Came Jaskier’s voice, just before a loud crashing sound. Geralt and the healer whipped their heads over to see the young man at the potion shelf, a glass shattered on the ground at his feet, green liquid expanding slowly across the wood floor. Jaskier blinked down at it. “It was… like that, when I found it.” He lied, glancing up innocently. 

The healer looked amused. “Witcher pup in training…?” She asked, glancing at Geralt. 

“No.” Geralt said gruffly. 

“Oh, can I be?” Jaskier asked. 

“ _No_.” 

“But-” 

“What’s this about elves?” Geralt turned back to the healer, ignoring Jaskier. 

“Oh, we have evidence there may be a colony of them somewhere, hiding like rats.” She said disdainfully. “Been giving the town trouble for as long as I can remember, but never moreso than now. Whatever creature they summoned has been wreaking havoc on the town as of late. Raiding stores and such. Eyewitnesses always claim it was a demon. Big horns and everything.” 

“ _Demons_?” Jaskier whispered, eyes wide. 

“Demons don’t have horns, and devils don’t exist.” Geralt said. 

“I’m aware.” Jen dipped her head. “I’m just stating what people thought they saw.” 

Geralt looked down at his feet thoughtfully, scratching his head. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure I can find it. If it’s enough of a nuisance that anyone is willing to pay for its head, anyway.” 

Jen glanced between Geralt and Jaskier, who was now looking at the book covers with his hands clasped behind his back, for a moment. “Look, there’s many Knights who would run you out of town, as I’m certain you know...” Jen sighed. “But those young fools will sooner get themselves killed by blundering into this thing than swallow their pride and let a professional take care of it. Considering I’ve got no clue what this thing is or how dangerous it is, I’d rather keep my people safe. We’re not a large community, but I can offer you some payment from our account and write it off as an exotic herb order.” 

“Good enough for me. Consider it taken care of.” Geralt dipped his head. 

“Just keep your head down, it would be better if none of the Knights knew you were here.” 

“Understood. I’ll return with proof of the creature’s demise.” 

“Good hunting, Witcher.” 

Geralt breathed in deeply, a frown forming on his face. Was he reading it wrong, the scent mingling with that of the sick and dying? Or was this... something new? 

The area around the hospital was chaotic, especially with the workers repairing the damage to the window that the ‘devil’ had caused. No one paid any mind to the biker and his chipper companion as Geralt casually sniffed around the area. Looked in the dirt and grass for clues with his sharp eyes. That was when he spotted something strange in the mud. Brows furrowed, Geralt glanced around to ensure no one was watching him. Jaskier was over by the entrance of the building, flirting with a pretty nurse who seemed to be on her way to work, amused look on her face. Geralt looked back down at the ground, falling into a crouch, pretending to tie his shoe, lifting his sunglasses just a bit. 

His brows only scrunched further when he realized what he was looking at. 

A hoof-print. An actual hoof-print, in the mud, at a hospital, in the middle of town. He didn’t smell any deer or horse or anything that could make such a print. Just that strange smell he couldn’t identify, days old and faint. Something alive, something not human. No animal or monster he recognized. Nothing he’d ever encountered. He was mystified. 

Geralt stood back up and sniffed, starting off to follow the scent trail. Well, whatever it was, it had to have a lair in which to stow the things it stole, surely. He would follow its scent and tracks back there and discover for himself the nature of it. He only wished he had some idea what he was getting into, so he could be prepared with the tools he needed to get rid of it. 

Jaskier glanced back to see Geralt heading off down the street, away from the hospital. “Geralt? Are we-? Oh, well, I’d best catch up with my friend before he gets himself in trouble.” Jaskier gave the nurse a regretful smile. 

She laughed, “Oh, honey, why do I get the feeling he’s the one who keeps you out of trouble?” 

“What can I say?” Jaskier grinned, backing away, spreading his hands. “Trouble is my middle name! … well actually no, it’s Alfred but- oh he’s walking a lot faster than I realized. Geralt, wait for me!” He turned and ran after the white-haired Witcher as fast as he could. 

“Scheduling a checkup?” Geralt grumbled when Jaskier had caught up with him. 

“Oh, she can check my prostate any day.” Jaskier panted, cheeks flushed from the mad dash, trying to catch his breath. Running was so not his thing. “Actually, I was asking about the hospital attack. Technically she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone the details, but oh am I _terribly_ charming.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “And?” 

“She said all it stole was antibiotics, bandages and antiseptics.” Jaskier put his hands in his jacket pockets. “She said people are guessing it was a member of a local gang wearing a devil mask, probably stealing supplies to patch up a friend injured in a gang fight or something.” 

“Hmm.” 

“I assume you don’t think that’s what happened?” 

“I have the scent of the creature. It’s not human.” Geralt frowned thoughtfully. “But stealing specific medical supplies... would indicate that it has some level of intelligence.” He kept his nose to the wind, following the trail down the road. It seemed to be leading deeper into the town, which was mystifying. Why wasn’t it heading out into the woods? Surely a magical creature with a fearsome appearance couldn’t live in the middle of a busy town? 

“Any idea what it is?” Jaskier asked, following Geralt, watching his tracking methods curiously. 

“Something new. Or old. Something I’ve never encountered.” 

“Well, that’s reassuring. How do you kill something if you don’t know what it is?” 

“If it’s intelligent, I’m not going to kill it.” 

“Eh?” 

Geralt frowned. The scent was starting to dissipate, mingling in with the strong, noisy scents of the city. Oil and spilled gasoline, paint, human body odor, rotting food. It was no surprise that the scent trail was faint, considering it was a few days old, but typically Geralt had an easier time singling it out from other smells. Perhaps it was because it was an unfamiliar one that he struggled to differentiate its parts. One aspect of it mingling with others. Could be part of the creature, could be a car tire. Geralt was starting to grow frustrated as he found himself slowing and lost, having to go back and retrace his steps several times. By the end of it, he’d lost the trail completely. 

He punched a garbage can with a frustrated groan. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier tilted his head questioningly. “What’s wrong?” 

“Lost it.” Geralt growled. 

“Oh, dear. What now, then?” 

Geralt scratched his head with a sigh, turning back towards the hospital, where they’d parked their bikes. “Now I must wait until it strikes again, for a fresh scent trail.” He grumbled. He was really hoping to get done with this job today, so he could be on the road tomorrow. He’d been expecting a simple, quick job, and it had turned out quite the opposite. This could take days, now. “Might as well set camp.” 

“So, what are you going to do when we find it, anyway?” 

Jaskier sat on the log at the edge of their campsite just outside down, strumming his ukulele as Geralt busied himself building a fire. The Witcher had cleared an area and placed the stones down, and was now dropping wood and kindling in that he’d scavenged for. 

“If it is intelligent, hopefully reason with it. If it is hostile, try to run it out of town.” Geralt said simply. He crouched down at the edge of the fire pit and made a strange gesture at the wood. “ _Igni_.” He muttered, and flames erupted instantly, catching the kindling and casting the area in orange glow. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows in shock. “Yer a wizard, Geralt!” He exclaimed. 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be a wizard to do basic signs.” He muttered, prodding at the fire with a stick to convince the rest of the wood to catch. 

"Signs?” 

“Very simple spells. You have to be born with an innate ability to do most real magic, but signs can be done by others.” 

Jaskier’s blue eyes lit up brighter than the campfire. “Can I learn them?” 

“No.” 

“ _Why_?” 

“Because you’re an idiot and you’ll set a building on fire.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier set his instrument down and dropped to his knees in front of him, blue eyes huge, one of them twitching a bit. “ _Please_.” He pressed his hands together pleadingly. 

Geralt rolled his eyes and stepped away from the man, walking over to the grocery bag he’d picked up in town when they left the healer’s place, pulling out the package of hot dogs he’d purchased. “Without an innate ability, mutations or a medallion, it would take you years to learn, if ever. It simply isn’t possible, for many.” 

“I’d put in the work! I’m a hard worker, and a fast learner! Once I’ve got my mind set to it, anyway.” 

“Jaskier, I have the patience of a hummingbird and the temperament of a boar. If I tried to teach you anything, I’ve no doubt you would find yourself hanging by your own vocal cords within an hour.” 

“...goddamn, that was _visceral_. Have you ever considered taking up poetry?” 

Geralt threw a hot dog at him, “Shut up and eat.” 

Jaskier sighed, sitting back, and impaled the hot dog on a stick. “Fine, but I’m not letting go of the fact that cool magic _exists_ and is _attainable_.” 

As they ate, Jaskier managed to squeeze a little more information about signs out of Geralt. Apparently, the key was in the hand gesture, or writing the symbol on a solid surface. It also took a great deal of energy to conjure the sign, so it took understanding how to tap into the powers of the world around them. Didn’t stop Jaskier from making that hand sign he saw Geralt make at the pile of dry leaves next to him every time the white-haired man looked away. 

Eventually, Jaskier got the S’mores ingredients out of his own bag and started toasting the marshmallows over the fire, several to a stick. “Golden or burnt?” He asked Geralt. 

“What now?” Geralt glanced at him quizzically through the fire. 

“I’m renown across the lands for my perfectly golden marshmallow; but if you like them as black as the heart of my high school algebra instructor, I can do that too.” 

Geralt only blinked. 

“Have... have you never toasted marshmallows before...?” 

“I don’t really do sweets. They’re not necessary for sustenance.” 

“So _that’s_ why you’re so ill-tempered.” Jaskier grinned and took one of the perfectly golden marshmallows off the stick and placed it on the graham cracker with the chocolate chunk. “Get ready to have your mind blown, my friend.” 

“We’re not friends.” Geralt grumbled, but he took the S’more from Jaskier’s hands anyway. 

“We’re about to be.” Jaskier smirked and turned to assemble his own S’more. 

Geralt looked down at the dessert in his hands, then shrugged and bit into it. Food was food. 

Now, he wasn’t going to admit it for a second, or let it show on his face, but gods if the moment of that single bite wasn’t an eye opener for Geralt. The perfect, gooey sweetness after breaching the slight, golden crust of the marshmallow. The bitter richness of the chocolate, slightly melted by the head of the marshmallow. The neutral crunch of the graham cracker. Whoever combined the three flavors and textures was an absolute genius, and Geralt couldn’t believe he’d gone so many years without experiencing this. He glanced at Jaskier while the man wasn’t looking, secretly hoping he would make more and offer it. 

He certainly wasn’t going to ask. He’d never live it down. 

A few hours later, when the fire had died down to a crackle, and both men had curled up in their sleeping bags and fallen asleep, Geralt awoke to the sound of quiet music. He opened his eyes and looked over to find Jaskier sitting up in his roll, ukulele in hands, seemingly trying to write out a tune by trial and error. 

“The fuck are you doing?” Geralt asked grouchily. 

Jaskier glanced up, seemingly unfazed by the murderous glow in the man’s golden eyes. “Hm? Oh, some lyrics came to me when I was falling asleep! Do you want to hear-?” 

“No, I do not want to hear any of your racket.” Geralt growled, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “It’s 2 fucking AM. I would like to sleep.” 

“Oh dear, someone’s grouchy.” Jaskier sighed, running his fingers along the strings. “I can be quieter. I’ll forget tomorrow if I don’t run it through now.” 

“Every sound you make is like a loudspeaker to me. If you must make noise, go deep into the woods with it.” 

“Alright, alright.” Jaskier grumbled, pushing himself to his feet and swinging his ukulele around his back. “If I get eaten by a werewolf, I’m blaming you.” 

“If only the universe should bless me with such a miracle.” 

“Hmm hmm, toss a coin to my- to _your_ Witcher, oh Valley... something something.” Jaskier paced the dark forest, leaves crunching under his feet, gently strumming his instrument. 

To be honest, he was rather at a loss on what to make the rest of the song about. The doppler case wasn’t much to write home about, considering it had been more boring research than action, and he’d been in too much shock to recall exactly what happened with the werewolf. He knew he wanted to write about an epic battle, but for that he needed material. Perhaps he could convince Geralt to describe one of his greatest hunts, in detail. Or at least mention something that happened, and Jaskier could make the rest up. 

“...oh Valley... hrm. How can I describe them in a way that will convince them they should throw their coin at my dear friend Geralt?” Jaskier played the tune on his instrument as he thought. “Make them realize that they have plenty to- ah, that’s it. Oh Valley of plenty!” 

Jaskier spun around and hit the notes harder on what he decided was the chorus line, “Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh Valley of plenty! Oh Valley of plenty, oh-” 

All of a sudden, something snapped. Before Jaskier had a chance to react, a sharp pain erupted across his forehead, and he was out like a light. 

\-- 

Geralt yawned and stretched as the morning light, in its orange haze, began to pour through his eyelids. He could smell the cooled ashes of the fire and the morning dew as the breeze gently drifted through his nostrils. Pleasant and refreshing, yet for some reason he felt like something was missing. 

He sat upright and glanced over at Jaskier’s obnoxious purple sleeping bag; suddenly recalling, somewhat wistfully, that the man existed. Strangely, the bag was flat and empty. Geralt sniffed the air, getting to his feet and walking over. Jaskier’s scent on the bag was hours old, and when he crouched down to feel the roll, it was cool to the touch. No sign of body heat. 

The man hadn’t returned last night, 

“Of fucking course.” Geralt groaned. He stood up and sniffed around, catching the man’s hours-old scent heading into the forest. He walked over to Roach and grabbed his sword from its compartment just in case, but he really hoped just to find the man asleep against a log or something. 

But he knew better. Jaskier said it himself; he was a trouble magnet. 

He knew something had happened when he found the man’s precious ukulele lying abandoned on the ground, a string snapped and a snail making its way across it. He grabbed the instrument and set it against a tree before sniffing around. He found by smell a few drops of Jaskier’s blood in the brush, and, chillingly, the same smell he’d picked up at the hospital. So the same creature that stole from the hospital and various other stores was now kidnapping people? For what? Whatever it was, it hadn’t killed Jaskier outright. From their smells mingling, Geralt would say the creature carried him off alive.

Geralt couldn’t help but grumble. What was it about this young man that got him into trouble with more magical creatures in a few days than most normal people see in their entire lives? Did he have some sort of ‘hey magical creatures, come and get me!’ sign painted on his back? 

He hadn’t the slightest idea what this thing was, nor what it wanted with the boy. But rarely ever did a magical creature want much else from a person than to eat them, or worse. The creature must be somewhat intelligent, considering; but he knew not its intentions. Though Jaskier may yet still be alive, Geralt had no idea for how long. 

Time was of the essence. Geralt followed the scent trail in a run. 

\-- 

Jaskier jolted awake to the splash of cold water across his face. He yelped, eyes blurred from the liquid, and tried reach up to wipe his face, but found his arms bound to something behind his back. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Just as he started to take in the dark, gray, gritty surroundings, his nose filled with a revolting scent. 

“Oh _god_ , what shat itself and died?” Jaskier held in a gag. 

A shadow on the ground shifted, and Jaskier looked up to see that he had company. His eyes were still bleary, but he squinted to make out the form of what appeared to be a tall woman staring down at him, and a far taller companion shrouded in shadows behind her. Jaskier raised his eyebrows and tried to shift in his position, sitting back against what felt like metal bars. His arms were between the bars and bound together on the other side by what felt like handcuffs. 

“Try to get free, and I’ll break your arms.” The woman growled down at him. 

Jaskier shook his head to stop the water dripping down from his hair into his eyes. He was wracking his brain to remember what happened, how he got here, but his head felt full of cotton. He blinked up at the woman, clearing his throat. “Is this trafficking? Have I been trafficked?” 

The woman frowned. “You’re my prisoner.” 

“Listen, before we go any further, I need to know if there’s going to be heroin.” Jaskier said. 

“You... what?” 

“If there’s no heroin, I’m out.” 

The woman stared at him, baffled. She glanced back at her companion in the shadows. “...how hard did you hit him?” 

“Not _that_ hard.” It answered, sounding equally puzzled. 

She shook her head and crouched in front of Jaskier, becoming illuminated by the stripes of dull light coming through the bars. His eyebrows shot up when he realized her ears were distinctly pointed. “Oh! You’re elves!” He exclaimed delightedly. 

“Quiet.” She growled. 

“I’ve never met an elf before.” Jaskier carried on, unfazed by her warning tone. “Hell, I didn’t even know you existed until-” 

In a flash of movement, the elf woman’s fist connected with Jaskier’s nose, who yelped in surprise and pain, tears springing to his eyes immediately. She pointed a finger at him, “When I say quiet, you stay quiet.” 

Jaskier sniffed, turning his head to his shoulder to wipe the tears on his shirt, “Yeah, I don’t really go in for that.” 

“Then put your words to use and tell me where the Witcher is.” 

“...pardon?” 

“The _Witcher_!” She seethed. 

“Is that a book or something? Never heard of it.” 

That was when the elf woman’s companion stepped forward into the light. Jaskier jolted at the sight of it. Its lower body was hairy and hooved, legs bent like an animal’s. Its face swollen and seemingly malformed, eyes large with horizontal pupils, long ears dipping down at either side. Most impressive, however, were the massive horns extending out from its head and curling up into the air. The hideous creature crouched down as well. “Liar, I heard you singing about a Witcher in the woods!”

“Eh?” Jaskier swallowed. “Oh, I was ah... singing about witch _es_! You see, my accent-” 

The elf woman’s fist connected with his jaw this time, and Jaskier cried out. “We’re not playing games, boy. We know the humans have set a Witcher on our trail, they’ve been trying to be rid of us for so long. Well, we won’t let it happen!” She grabbed him by the shirt and hoisted him up to his feet, his arms sliding up the bars. “We’ll ambush him before he can lift his sword!” 

“Witches, swords and elves. My, my; I’ve fallen straight into Middle-Earth, haven’t I?” Jaskier said, casually looking the elf woman in the eye as she glared at him, inches away. Seemingly entirely unbothered. 

That was when she kicked him hard in the chest. 

The pain that exploded was so severe that Jaskier couldn’t even yelp, just gasped breathlessly, eyes wide. He fell back against the bars, scrunching his body against the throbbing. The elf stared at him in surprise as his legs gave out and he slid back down to the ground. 

“Oh, please, I didn’t even-” The elf blinked when she realized a red stain was blooming on Jaskier’s shirt. She glanced over at the goat man in shock. “Since when are humans _this_ fragile?” 

Jaskier was grimacing, spots in his eyes, ears ringing, feeling dizzy. The goat man crawled over and pulled back his shirt to reveal the healing gouges, several stitches burst open from the impact of the kick. Blood was oozing from the freshly opened wounds. 

“...come, we must go speak to the king...” The elf woman told the goat man before turning and heading away. 

Jaskier dazedly watched the goat man look him over for a second before getting to his feet (hooves?) and following the elf. When their footsteps died away, Jaskier could hear the gentle dripping of water through the ringing in his ears, mesmerizing in its simple sound, as the world slowly went dark again. 

Geralt had been running through the woods for almost an hour by the time he reached the edge of the town. He wasn’t tired or anything, Witcher stamina and all, but he was starting to get concerned that he might not reach the creature in time. Just how far had it taken Jaskier? 

As soon as he thought that, the trail ended. Geralt blinked in surprise as he sniffed around. The scent just stopped in the middle of the street, like the creature had disappeared. Did it have wings? Had it launched into the sky and now Geralt would never find it? He was starting to feel dismayed when he realized that the scent stopped right over a manhole cover. The sewers, then. That would make things slightly more difficult, the strong stench of the underground overwhelming the trail. 

Still, it was the best chance he had. Geralt lifted the manhole cover and started down the ladder, pulling the cover back over so as not to arouse suspicion. 

It was far from the first time Geralt had found himself in the bowels of a city, and he hated it more every time. For someone with such a sensitive nose as his, the overwhelming stench was the precise opposite of pleasant. The choking odor stuck to his skin and he had to scrub himself for days to remove all traces. All he wanted was to pull his shirt over his nose, but he needed to take it all in, to keep following the scent trail. It was hard to distinguish, but it was there. 

His boots scuffed along the cement walkway as he headed down, following the trail grouchily. 

It felt like it had been hours by the time anyone came back to where Jaskier was tied up. 

His chest had been slowly oozing blood the entire time, pooling around him and drenching his clothes, and seemed to have no intention of stopping. He was starting to feel rather lightheaded and loopy from the blood loss, but he remained good spirited. He knew Geralt would come for him eventually. It was only a matter of time.

In the meantime, he hummed and tapped his fingers against the bars while he waited. 

“Humans.” The voice of the elf woman came sneering from the darkness. “Your concept of music is abominable.” 

Jaskier bobbed his head up to see the woman approaching, a new form beside her this time, the goat man hovering on the other side. The newcomer was a male elf, by the looks of it, with medium-length blonde hair and a handsome face. 

“Everyone’s a critic.” Jaskier sighed. 

The elf man came over and crouched in front of Jaskier’s slumped body, glancing him over curiously. “Tell me, what’s a pup like you hanging around Witchers for? I’ve never known them to keep pets.” 

A fond smile crossed Jaskier’s face, and he blinked slowly. “I love puppies. Maybe I’ll convince Geralt to get one. Put him in a little side car.” He giggled. “Little puppy aviator goggles...” 

The trio blinked at him. 

The goat man crouched beside Jaskier, a worried look on his ugly face. “He’s lost a lot of blood, my lord. Should we do something?” 

“What’s a human life to you, Torque?” The elf woman said, voice hostile. “Let him bleed out.” 

“Geralt, then?” The elf man continued, ignoring the other two. “I’ve heard that name, before. A long, long time ago. The Butcher, they called him.” 

“Well, he’s been holding out on me with any prime cuts.” Jaskier frowned, head bobbing, hard to keep it up, hard to keep his eyes open. “It’s been terribly long since I’ve had a decent steak.” 

“Do you want to know why they called him that?” The elf went on, ignoring Jaskier's nonsense, and not waiting for an answer. “They say he killed half a town. A human town. Went mad, they say. Tell me, boy; why would you want to follow a murderer around?” 

“Mmn, I’m sure he had a reason.” 

“Sure. He’s a psychopath.” 

“He’s a good man with a very... _very_ nice set of pecs.” Jaskier’s head slumped to the side, having lost all strength in his neck. 

“My lord," Torque, the goat man, cut in anxiously, "if you let the Witcher’s companion die, we may lose any ability to reason with him.” 

The elf woman scoffed. “Witchers, reason? They’re nothing more than animals. Vicious dogs.” 

“He will come for me, you know.” Jaskier closed his eyes with a weak sigh. “And he’ll... very not nice you...” His words were starting to slur. 

“What makes you think a Witcher has the capacity to care enough about a mere human to bother?” The elf man tilted his head as he asked this. He seemed genuinely curious. 

“Because that’s what heroes do!” Jaskier rolled his shoulder, opening one eye. “...pretend I’m doing finger guns right now.” 

The elf laughed cruelly, “Hero-” 

“My lord, Filavandrel!” Called out a voice, echoing through the dank halls. The elf man, Filavandrel, stood up and turned towards the approaching crowd. At least five elves, dragging a body between them, trying to squirm out of their grip. They brought it over and dumped it unceremoniously on the ground nearby. Jaskier was just lucid enough through bleary, half-closed eyes to realize that it was Geralt, his arms tied behind his back with ropes, sunglasses missing, clothes dirty. The large man pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around wildly, white hair a mess around his face, yellow eyes wide. 

“See! Told you.” Jaskier slurred. 

Geralt glanced over at Jaskier and furrowed his brows. He was rather surprised at the young man’s condition. Pale, hair damp, bruises forming on his face, the side of his head encrusted with dried blood. His shirt blooming with red like the night of the werewolf, the thick scent of fresh blood filling his nostrils. 

“What did you do to him?” He turned back and snarled at the elf man. 

“Why do you care?” Filavandrel asked. “Witchers care for nothing but money.” 

“I’m very cute.” Jaskier mumbled, eyes closed again. 

“You must have healers.” Geralt said, ignoring the question. “Fix him, or I’ll-” 

“You’ll what?” Filavandrel laughed. “You’re rather tied up, at the moment.” 

Geralt let out an exasperated breath, flipping the hair out of his eyes. He realized he'd need a different tactic, if he hoped to get Jaskier help in time. “What do you want from me?” 

“What do _I_ want?” The blonde elf raised his eyebrows, taking a step forward to tower over the large man on the ground. “You came into my home, you hunted my people, and you ask what _I_ want?” His face was twisted in contempt.

“I wasn’t hunting _you_.” Geralt growled, glancing over at Torque. “I was hunting... that. What the fuck is it, anyway? Its mother fuck a goat?” 

The goat man snorted. “I’m a Sylvan, a noble race. What about you? Your mother fuck a snowman?” 

“Torque, please.” The elf lord sighed exasperatedly. 

“So you _are_ intelligent.” Geralt flexed his shoulders, aching from the position he was kept in. He glanced back up at Filavandrel. “I was hired by the villagers to kill the ‘devil’ that’s been stealing from the town. I have no quarrel with elves, nor do I ever take contracts against them.” 

“Don’t listen to him, my lord.” The elf woman stepped forward, pointing a dagger threateningly at the Witcher. “He’ll cut us all down the moment he’s free of bonds. We should just slit his throat now-” 

“Quiet, Toruviel.” Filavandrel said quietly. He gazed evenly at Geralt. “The Sylvan is a good friend to us. The humans have pushed us down here, to their rotting bowels, and many of my people are sick and dying. Torque fetched us needed medical supplies.” 

“I have no wish to kill intelligent creatures.” Geralt grunted. “Though the Valley folk hired me to kill him, I intended to have words that he might leave this place. Now, I see, it is more complicated than that.” 

“Indeed.” Filavandrel agreed. “You’ve rather gotten yourself caught up in a war.” 

“I’d hardly call hiding in the sewers ‘war’.” 

“Now, yes.” The elf sniffed looking at the crowd of elves watching curiously. “But we cannot continue on like this. This town was ours long before the humans came. We intend to take back what is ours, and soon.” 

“You’re going to battle? In the middle of town?” 

“We have no other choice. If we do not attack now, they will find us and kill us first.” 

“What about innocent bystanders? Most of the townsfolk know nothing of you or your struggle.” 

“Innocent? Humans?” Toruviel barked a laugh. “ _None_ of you are innocent.” 

Geralt glared at her. “Do not group me in with them.” He said gruffly. “I am no more human than you are. I’m as much an outsider as any.” 

"You _look_ human enough for most."

Geralt sighed exasperatedly, glancing over at Jaskier. The young man had gone uncharacteristically silent, slumped over. “Do what you will. I won’t try to stop you. But Jaskier and I are not part of this. Let us go, and we’ll leave this town and not return.” 

“You know I can’t allow that.” Filavandrel tilted his head. “I do not know that you are being truthful. You might go to the humans and tell them where we are.” 

“If you won’t let me go, at least let the boy go.” 

“I’m 26.” Jaskier protested the word ‘boy’ weakly, eyes still closed. “My birthday was last week.” 

“It’ll be your last if you don’t be quiet.” Geralt rumbled, looking Filavandrel in the eyes evenly. “He’s not your enemy.” 

“All humans are my enemy.” Filavandrel stated evenly. 

“Regardless, he is no threat to you. He has weak, noodle arms.” 

“Hey, now.” Jaskier grumbled. 

“Look...” Geralt sighed. “Even if you kill all the Valley folk in this town, what then? You won’t live peacefully. It will escalate. The humans will come in droves and kill you all. There isn’t enough of you to take enough back from the humans that they won’t be able to come back with more and destroy you.” 

“It may be futile, but we are nothing if not proud.” Filavandrel raised his chin. “We will not die lying down.” 

“You needn’t die at all.” Geralt argued. “Why not just move on? To another city?” 

“And then what?” Filavandrel snarled. “There is no end of this planet that the humans have not defiled. There is no place of peace for us. It matters not how far we go, the humans will follow, and they will kill us.” 

“You and I both know that the world of humans is not sustainable.” Geralt reasoned. “There will come a day that they will destroy themselves.” 

“And the world along with it.” 

“Perhaps, but nature will rise up against them while they are weak. Hide, get strong, be there when it does. Now is not the time.” 

Filavandrel was silent for a while, hands clasped behind him, thinking. He glanced at the crowd of elves and beckoned one over. “Get the healer. Tell him to bring a blood restorative, and bandages.” 

Toruviel made a sound of surprise, “My lord, why-” 

“That’s enough, Toruviel.” His voice a calm finality. “Go check on the others.” 

The woman, red in the face with anger, turned and stormed off. Filavandrel nodded at the other elf. “Go.” 

The elf obediently dipped his head and ran off down the walkway. 

Geralt relaxed his shoulders. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “Do you know where you will go?” 

Filavandrel looked at the ground. “If I knew where to turn, I would have done so long before becoming cornered like this.” He said, honestly. 

“I can help you with that.” Geralt said. “I know an elf a few towns away, in Kingston. He had his ears cut down to appear human, but you will see the scars. Ask for Kyrenic at the Red Tiger motel. The town is small, but free of Valley folk, and the elf community thrives there. Your people will be safe.” 

The elf sighed tiredly, pinching between his eyes before looking up and nodding. “I suppose I have no choice but to trust that you are not leading me astray.” 

“It matters not to me what you do. Take my advice or leave it, so long as the boy and I go free.” 

Filavandrel nodded at the other elves, who came forward to start cutting Geralt free of the ropes. “I will have someone escort you to the surface when your friend has been seen to.” 

Geralt rubbed his wrists when his arms were free, and got to his feet. The elves around him backed away, looking rather nervous. Most of them smelled ill of health, no doubt not particularly confident in a fight against the Witcher without the element of surprise they’d had earlier. But Geralt crossed his arms and focused ahead of him, making no motion against his captors. He had no wish to start a fight. 

By now, the elf healer, introducing himself as Chireadan, had arrived and been directed to Jaskier; who was very weak, pale as a ghost and nearly unconscious, mumbling nonsense. They unlocked the cuffs and lay him down on the dirty ground to patch him up, forcing a blue potion down his throat. He couldn’t do much more than grunt weakly in protest. Geralt watched over him closely as Chireadan cut Jaskier's shirt away, cleaned his wounds and wrapped the bandages around his torso. Geralt did not sense that the elves had any intent on betraying him, but he did not let his guard down.

“I’m not going to have any shirts left.” Jaskier muttered when some of his strength had returned and he had regained full consciousness, watching the bandaging with a sigh. 

“Then stop inspiring people to kick you.” Geralt said, carefully keeping any sign of amusement off his face.

“It’s not my fault you’re all grumpy.” 

Around 30 minutes later, when Jaskier had enough strength returned to him by the potion that he could once again stand, albeit with help, Filavandrel told them they may be on their way. As Geralt passed the elf by, one arm around Jaskier’s torso for support, Filavandrel grabbed his shoulder. 

“Where will you stand on that day, Witcher?” He asked softly. “The day we rise against the humans?” 

“In a tavern, drinking beer.” Geralt said honestly, looking the elf in the eye. “The war is not mine.” 

“If the humans group you with us, how is it not your war? Surely by nature alone, you belong on our side.” 

“I don’t care. I kill monsters. I do not get involved with the trifles of people. Never have, never will.” Geralt grunted. “I’ll hunt monsters for the humans, I’ll hunt monsters for you; for anyone who pays. But I will not fight elves, and I will not fight humans. That is the way of the Witcher, and the way it will always be.” 

Filvandrel dipped his head and released the man’s shoulder. “Fair enough. Good hunting, Witcher.” 

Torque, the Sylvan, was the one that lead the pair of them through the maze of the sewers. When they reached a ladder, which the goat man explained led to a quiet area where no one would see them climb out, Torque offered Geralt a small bone saw. 

“What’s this for?” Geralt asked. 

“Cut my horn off and take it with you.” The Sylvan offered. “Give it to the Valley folk as evidence that you have killed the ‘devil’.” 

Geralt gazed at him in mild surprise. “Why do this for me?” He asked, gingerly taking the saw. 

“Consider it a thank you, for helping the elf king and his people.” Torque said softly. “And insurance, that the humans might be satisfied and leave it at that.” 

Geralt nodded, letting go of Jaskier and stepping forward. Torque dipped his head low, and Geralt took a horn in his hand, bringing the saw up. “You’re certain?” 

“Aye, get on with it.” 

Several minutes of sawing later, the goat man was free of half a horn, and Geralt deposited it in his coat pocket. Torque turned to make his return to the elves, hooves clacking on the cement. “Take care of the boy, Witcher.” He called over his shoulder. 

Geralt nodded. “Keep the elves safe, Sylvan.” And with that bid, he turned to prod Jaskier, who was gripping the ladder for support, and the pair of them headed up and out of the sewers. 

When Geralt and Jaskier had long gone, and the other elves dismissed, Filavandrel stood by as the elf healer cleaned up his supplies. 

“Did you see it? In the boy’s blood?” Chireadan asked quietly, folding a bloodied rag. 

“I did.” Filavandrel muttered back, arms crossed. “I don’t think the Witcher realizes.” 

“It is only a matter of time. He will smell something off eventually.” 

“We can only hope, but for now, best he remain in the dark.” 

Chireadan looked up at his king in surprise. “Why’s that?” 

“Perhaps the day he realizes it, he will be in too deep to turn back.” Filavandrel’s eyes were cast in shadow. “Love, in all its forms, is a powerful force. Perhaps he will turn to our cause yet, with love as a motivator.” 

“A Witcher, loving anything more than coin?” 

“Witchers aren’t as soulless as they try to make people think.” The elf king said, clasping his hands behind his back and turning away. “Why else would he come to save the boy, if he hadn’t the capacity to care?” 

Chireadan thought on that for a long time after Filavandrel was gone. 

\-- 

Hours later, Geralt and Jaskier had picked up the ukulele along the return and had reached their campsite, and Geralt began packing up. It was getting late already, sunset nearing, and Jaskier was still drained and exhausted. Chest throbbing, bruises sore and deepening in purple. 

“We’re not going to stay here for the night?” Jaskier asked, sitting on a log, freshly changed out of his bloodied clothes, examining his ukulele for damage and replacing the broken string. He really wasn’t sure that he had the energy for a nighttime ride to the next town. 

“We’re going to a motel.” Geralt told him, heaving Jaskier’s bag onto his bike. 

Jaskier perked up at that. A warm shower to wash off all the blood, a real bed to sink his aching body into for the night; it all sounded fantastic. 

He struggled on his bike, too shaky and weak to tame the finicky beast, but the motel was just down the road, and he managed alright. Geralt was being strangely attentive as he grabbed Jaskier’s bag for him and lead the way to check-in, talking to the lady at the counter before coming back to help him down the hallway. It was suspiciously odd, but Jaskier was too tired to think anything of it, and the moment they entered the motel room he fell right into the first of the two twin beds face first. 

“I don’t care how stained by bodily fluids it is, I could marry this mattress.” Jaskier said, voice muffled by the bed. “I’m never leaving you, baby.” 

Geralt tossed the younger man’s bag at the foot of the bed. “Well, you have it for two nights.” He said gruffly. “Ought to be long enough to recover and then figure out where you’re going.” 

Jaskier rolled over onto his side and looked up at the Witcher. “Where _I’m_ going? What about you?” 

“I’ll be gone tomorrow morning.” 

“You’re leaving me here?” 

Geralt tossed his own bag on the other bed and began rummaging around in it for clothes. “I think today has proven that having you around is nothing but trouble.” 

Jaskier pushed himself up into a sitting position with a wince, grabbing at his chest when pain shot through it. “Hey now, if the goat man hadn’t kidnapped me, you’d be waiting around to catch him for days!” He pointed out. “I saved you a lot of time!” 

“And very nearly got yourself killed.” 

“Eh, but you got to me in time.” 

“And what if I don’t, next time?” Geralt growled, turning to look him in the eye. "I won't always be there to save you."

“It’s fine, I have plot armor.” 

“...what?” 

“Nothing. Listen,” Jaskier raised his hands, “you and I both know that the way things are going, you won’t be a Witcher for much longer.” 

Geralt glared, but said nothing, sitting down on his bed. 

“I haven’t been here long, but it seems to be that your public image is getting more sour by the moment, and it’s likely that one day you won’t find work at all.” 

“There’s always work.” 

“Aye, but you have to scrounge for it, yes? Wouldn’t you rather be rolling in it? Have your pick of the highest paying jobs, be able to turn down the lesser wastes of time?” 

Geralt remained silent. 

Jaskier smiled confidently, “I’m working on something big, Witcher. Something that is going to be very beneficial for you and your business. When I’m finished, you won’t be able to stop the work flooding in.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. 

“I know, I know. It’s fine if you don’t believe me. But give me a few days, and I swear I’ll make it worth your while. What do you have to lose?” 

“My temper.” 

“Ah, yes, well-” 

“The sliver of self-control keeping me from strangling you.” 

“Oh, daddy.” Jaskier smirked, then rested a hand on his own throbbing chest. “Listen. I swear on my dear grandmother's grave; if I do not succeed in my endeavors, I shall be on my way with no argument. I'll be out of your hair forever.” 

Geralt was silent for a long while, seemingly thinking, before finally pushing himself up to his feet and heading towards the bathroom, “If you’re not up when I leave in the morning, I’m not waiting for you.” 

Jaskier grinned triumphantly as he watched the large man head into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He reached down and picked up his ukulele with a wince, working on retuning it while the muffled sound of the shower filled the room. 

When the instrument was ready, he held it gingerly and began to strum, singing along quietly. 

“When a humble bard, graced a ride along...” 


	4. Call Me

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried out, falling onto his backside in the mud, scrambling backwards to get away from the slimy creature coming towards him, swollen eyes bulging from its disgusting head. 

The vaguely humanoid monster let out an ear-piercing shriek as it lunged for him, sharp claws glinting in the noonday sun. Not a split second to spare, a shining sword flashed down and sliced off the creature’s head, hot blood splattering all over Jaskier. 

“I told you to wait in the parking lot.” Geralt snarled down at him. 

Jaskier looked up at him dazedly, the Witcher illuminated by a halo of light like an enraged angel, both of them covered in mud and blood. 

“I can’t very well write about something I didn’t see happen, eh?” He pointed out. 

“You can’t very well write about _anything_ if you’re dead.” Geralt snapped back, wiping off his sword and sheathing it on his back before offering a hand to Jaskier. 

Jaskier took his hand and was hoisted up to his feet by the Witcher’s incredible strength, almost feeling like his arm just got pulled from its socket, but bit back a complaint. Instead he flicked his hands down in an attempt to remove at least some of the grime that was dripping from his body. “Well, we’re both disgusting now. Motel it is, then?” 

Geralt sighed, looking down at his soaked clothes. “Fine, but you’re paying this time.” 

“I literally have $12 to my name right now.” 

“Seriously?” 

“It’s not like I’m the one getting paid for any of this.” 

The past four days had been spent primarily traveling, and camping. Jaskier was starting to get used to the constant ride, even looking forward to it when he woke up cozy in his obnoxiously-colored sleeping bag each morning. The current terrain of the areas they rode through, although beautiful, wasn't anything Jaskier hadn’t seen before. He knew that would change the further west they went, and he looked forward to seeing the variety of the American wilderness. Perhaps, if all went well and Geralt let him continue to tag along, they could even detour through some national parks. The beauty in nature was always inspiring for verse. 

Geralt had taken on a quick job halfway through the four-day ride, hunting a cockatrice that had been killing a local farmer’s goats. Jaskier had gotten too close and nearly been skewered by the monster's long claws, and, as punishment, Geralt made him help with the feather plucking. He hadn't made much off this hunt, and so he intended to gather as much of it as he could to sell to a healer or sorcerer. Jaskier’s fingers had been nearly too sore to grip the handlebars of his motorcycle afterwards. 

Earlier today, Geralt had been stopped by a man at the diner they were grabbing lunch at, who recognized him as a Witcher from the wolf medallion that hung around his neck and his striking appearance.

“Please, two of my friends died from the cursed beasts.” The man had pleaded with him. “We were fishing and... well, the police won’t do anything, they decided it was alligators. Alligators! We don’t even have those around here!” 

“I’ll take care of your drowner problem.” Geralt assured. “But not for free.” 

“We haven’t got much, but I can pay.” 

After the hunt was over, Geralt grumbled about how he'd been barely paid enough to cover the cost of the drycleaners as they walked down the hallway of the motel. The person at the counter looked rather concerned at the image of the two men covered in drying mud and splattered red stuff, dripping all over the floor, but opted not to say anything more than pointing out the nearest cleaner. 

Freshly showered, Jaskier sat on his bed in his boxer briefs. The werewolf claw gashes across his chest had healed up quickly from the elven potions, the stitches dissolved, leaving raised red skin where the scar tissue was forming. He was using the tiny motel dryer on his hair with one hand as he tapped commands into his little laptop with the other. His project was so close to complete, ready to launch tomorrow after the finishing touches, and he almost felt like celebrating. Granted, it was make or break, and he probably shouldn’t celebrate prematurely. But where’s the fun in that? 

“I’m bored.” He complained as Geralt came out of the bathroom in a towel, glancing away from the screen to appreciatively take in the sight of that heavily-muscled torso. “Do you ever do anything other than travel, hunt monsters, and sleep?” 

Geralt only rolled his eyes and walked over to his bag to get fresh clothes. 

Jaskier sighed and peered out the window of the motel room next to his bed, picking at his ear, feeling restless. Across the street, he could see a bar buzzing with activity. That seemed like a nice place to get his energy out, and wind down with a drink. “Let’s go to the pub, eh?” He suggested. “I’ll buy you a drink. Ah, one that’s under $12. Wait; $17. Someone just bought my album.” 

“People really pay to listen to you shriek?” Geralt asked, rummaging through his bag. “I’d have thought you’d have to pay them.” 

“Hey now, that’s rather uncalled for.” Jaskier pointed the hairdryer at him with a frown. “I have a lovely voice!” 

“Would be a lot more lovely several decibels quieter.” 

“Oh, honey; if you wanted me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, all you had to do is ask.” Jaskier switched off the hairdryer and hopped down to his feet, padding over to his own bag to put together an outfit hopefully capable of aiding him in flirting his way into a few free drinks. He looked at one of his low-cut shirts wistfully, setting it aside. He couldn’t get away with those anymore without putting those nasty scars on display, and he wasn't ready for that yet. He went for a T-shirt that he knew hugged his frame instead, and a scarf. “Come on, let’s go celebrate your victory against the fish men with some alcohol and terrible company.” 

Geralt grumbled, but didn’t decline. 

“Are you even old enough to be in here?” Geralt muttered as the pair of them stepped into the darkly lit, noisy place; ever darker through the lenses of his sunglasses. As good as alcohol sounded, he was starting to regret this decision. Overcrowded, rowdy bars were not the best place for someone with sensitive ears like him. 

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Jaskier pouted. “I’m 26!” 

“You have the face of a baby.” 

“I-!” Jaskier jabbed a finger in Geralt’s direction, then thought for a second, “....am going to take that as a compliment, thank you.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. 

The pair of them went up to the bar, Jaskier leaning over it with a hand planted on his hip, “Aye, something for my friend here, my good man!” He called over the bartender, slapping his card on the counter. 

“What’s your poison?” The man asked, striding over as he wiped a glass down. 

“Whatever’s on tap.” Geralt rumbled, taking a seat on the stool, trying to tune out all the noise around him. 

“Coming right up.” 

Jaskier hopped up on the stool beside him, beginning to scan the crowd around him. He was searching for a specific sort of person, at a specific level of drunkenness. He was good at finding what he was looking for, but it was going to take some time. 

“You’re not drinking?” Geralt asked, glancing over at him, frowning over the fact that these stools were far too close together to the point that the smaller man’s shoulder brushed against his.

Jaskier glanced up at Geralt briefly, “Oh, I make a point never to pay for my own drinks.” 

“Sounds like a good way to get roofied.” 

“Ah, well... it's always Murphy's law for me anyway.” Jaskier winced, trying not to think on the past. 

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, not daring to ask what he meant by that. “Do you have a single ounce of self-preservation in your entire body?” 

“Honey, I put a lot of things in my body,” Jaskier winked and rested his chin on his hand, elbow propped against the bar surface, “tends to push things like a sense of mortality out." He looked up thoughtfully. "Or stomach contents.” 

Geralt stifled a groan and looked away from the ridiculous boy beside him, casting his eyes forward instead. He adjusted his sunglasses, which were beginning to dig into the bridge of his nose. 

“Why do you wear those sunglasses all the time, anyway?” Jaskier asked, tracing something only he knew on the surface of the bar. “Even indoors. You don’t strike me as one of _those_ douchebags.” 

Geralt shrugged. “Humans don’t have yellow eyes. People stare.” 

Jaskier snorted, “Geralt, you’re a giant, muscly, leather-clad biker with long, white hair; people stare anyway.” 

“Fair.” Geralt grunted. He couldn’t argue with that one. The bartender slid the glass of beer over to Geralt, who took it with a nod of thanks and lifted it to his mouth for a swig. 

“ _...serious? Do you know how long we’ve been trying to get into this spot?_ ” 

Jaskier twisted around to look when he heard a voice that stood out above the crowd, and he glanced over to where a small group of young people dressed in casual rocker clothing were standing around a young woman with shockingly pink hair. They all wore t-shirts with the words ‘Abby and the Beasts’, and some had instruments on their backs. The woman's voice was gone and croaking, but Jaskier thought he heard her rasp something about being sorry and that the flu happens. She was rather pale and seemingly tired, her nose and cheeks flushed red. 

“What the fuck do we do now?” One of them groaned. “None of us can sing!” 

A band, then. Scheduled to play tonight. And their singer lost her voice just in time for the big event. Jaskier knew how hard it was as a struggling musician to obtain a slot in a popular bar. He understood their frustration well, the despair they were likely feeling. He simultaneously felt pity, and a blooming excitement forming in his veins. He took Geralt’s drink out of his hand, took a sip, and handed it back; pushing away from the bar and walking away before the Witcher finished processing what just happened, staring at his drink. 

“You do originals, or covers?” Jaskier asked when he sauntered up to the band. 

They all turned and blinked at him. One of them, a very handsome, tall man with a guitar slung over his back, answered, “Mostly rock covers. Why?” 

“Overheard your dilemma. I’m a singer, thought I might offer to help you out.” 

The drummer, the only other woman on the band, scoffed, “Thanks, but we really don’t need some shower concerto-” 

Jaskier held up his phone with his Bandcamp profile, pointing at the stats of his fans and album purchases. He wasn’t famous or anything, but he had a decent following that lent to his skill. Another member, the bassist, stared with surprise and took the phone for a closer look, “ _You_ collabed with Crashteaser?” He asked, surprised to see the album cover for a more popular local band of the area appear on Jaskier's page.

“Oh, yeah. They needed someone for a duet.” 

“Their Silver album? That second singer was _you_?” 

“Our voices really did blend beautifully, didn't they?” 

The handsome guitarist blinked, expression softening. “Damn, alright. You’d really cover for Abby? All night?” 

The pink-haired girl, Abby, was gazing at him with a conflicted expression, sniffling quietly. 

“Buy me drinks between sets and I’m all yours.” Jaskier’s lip curled up in a suggestive little smirk. “Rock isn’t usually my style, but I’m versatile. In more ways than one.” 

The guitarist raised his eyebrows, a smile forming on his face. “Alrightalright,” he looked up at his fellow band members, “sounds like we’re green, ladies and gents!” 

Jaskier flashed him a charming smile, clasping his hands behind his back as the other band members cheered with relief and excitement, brought out of their despair.

“You know [In This Moment’s ‘Call Me’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUfx4ALt5SU)?” The guitarist glanced back down at Jaskier. “We were gonna start with that, but if you don’t-”

“Cover of a cover? I’m all over it.” 

Geralt was just starting to sip his second beer when the loud drums and guitar began, and he winced with annoyance. Live bar music was the absolute worst, always far louder than it needed to be. Honestly, how did anyone even get anything out of it when it was so loud? It’s like drowning a taco in tabasco sauce. Might as well just drink the sauce straight up. 

He was considering taking his leave early when he heard a familiar voice ring out. 

“ _Color me your color baby, color me your car_.” 

Geralt whipped his head around to see Jaskier on the slight stage in the corner of the dark bar. The man was at the microphone, practically caressing the stand as he swayed his body sensually, voice sultry. “ _Color me your color darling, I know who you are._ ” The other patrons at the bar had started turning around curiously, seemingly transfixed. A lot of conversations that had been buzzing around Geralt promptly cut off. 

“ _Come up off your color chart_ ,” Jaskier’s fine hands slid slowly up the mic stand, a faint smirk playing across his face as he glanced to the side. He was moving his body like a slinking panther, showing off his admittedly nice figure. “ _I know where you're coming from_.” 

The music burst with sudden energy, pumping through the bar as Jaskier threw his head up to belt out the chorus. “ _Call me_ _!_ _On_ _the line_ ,” His voice took on just the slightest growl, “ _Call me, call me any, any anytime_.” Jaskier was bouncing energetically to the music, face lit up. The faces on the band members around him were all beaming with excitement, energized to play as hard as they could. “ _Call me! My love,_ _you can call me any day or night._ ” 

Now, despite his earlier insult to Jaskier’s singing voice, Geralt couldn’t truly deny that the man was hitting it, his voice smooth and passion-filled, seemingly no note he couldn’t reach. He sat there staring, beer forgotten in his grasp; watching as that idiot that had insisted on following him around like a happy-go-lucky puppy run the stage like an absolute sex icon. Those wide, wonder-filled blue eyes turned dark and seductive. 

Ever more-so as he started on the next line, his voice back down to a simmer once again, “ _Cover me with kisses baby, cover me with love_.” He slowly ran his fingers up his body with one hand, and down it with the other. “ _Roll me in designer sheets, I'll never get enough._ ” He mimed pulling blankets around him sensually. 

The man sitting at the bar next to Geralt was staring with wide eyes, eventually admitting to no one in particular, “…I’m feeling very sexually confused right now.” 

“Pretty sure half the bar is.” The bartender responded without looking away from the stage, stopped mid-wipe on the glass in his hands. 

“ _Emotions come, I don't know why_ _,_ ” the music started to pump up again, “ _Cover up love's alibi_.” 

As the second chorus hit, much of the bar was up and moving with the energy of the song. Like a tiny rock concert, some were even dancing. Even Geralt felt the energy coursing through him, though he kept his body rigid. He wiped the perplexed expression from his face and turned back to his drink, taking a swig of it. He was just surprised, is all. All he’d really heard from Jaskier so far was some humming and experimental tunes on the ukulele, and some singing from afar when he’d made him go into the forest with it. The man was recording something, supposedly, but he’d done all the singing at a studio that he flirted his way into the other day after begging Geralt to stop in the town for an hour and Geralt hadn’t heard a bit of it. He simply hadn’t considered that the man could actually belt it out like this. 

“ _Aah, he speaks the languages of love..._ ” 

When the guitar solo came, the guitarist and Jaskier pressed back to back, Jaskier air-strumming the mic stand. The crowd was absolutely loving it. The guitarist seemed to be having a great time, glancing back at Jaskier with a smirk. They had a chemistry, they could both feel it electrify their nerves. Jaskier felt the music and the energy of the room resonate through his veins like adrenaline, felt it move his body almost compulsively, like an equation of tones and movement, and he closed his eyes to absorb it. There was nothing like this feeling, of being at the center of something loud and powerful, the vibration in his throat and the hum in his ears as he sang out. Of seeing the people around him excited, moving, having fun; being the _reason_ they were having fun. More than anything else, Jaskier loved pleasing people. He drank it in like lifegiving water. 

It felt like magic. Raw, powerful magic. 

He really couldn’t get enough. 

Three songs later, Geralt was rather weary of all the noise as he drained the last of his third beer. As much as he felt sometimes like he couldn’t let Jaskier out of his sight for two seconds or the young man would find himself in some form of trouble, Geralt figured he was safe from monsters here at least. He’d survived 26 years without him, right? He could handle himself. It wasn’t like Geralt cared, either. That idiot had latched onto him, not the other way around. It wasn’t like the admittedly amusing banter and Jaskier's cheerful presence and undivided attention the past few days filled some deep inner need for companionship... baka. 

Geralt paid his tab and got up from the bar stool, glancing at Jaskier one more time, who was currently between sets and chugging a long glass of something while the band members and several patrons around him cheered. Geralt couldn’t fathom being so extroverted, thriving on that much noise, that many people around him. He far preferred his peace, quiet and solitude. As he went for the door, he passed by the pink-haired girl who he gathered was the original singer of the band draped across the bar counter, drinking her jealousy away and hoarsely crying to the bartender about how she’ll have to drink a whole Bang before every set now to compete with this guy’s energy. 

The Witcher placed his hands in his leather jacket’s pockets, head down, and shouldered his way through the crowded bar. Just as he reached the door, however, something caught his eye. He glanced up at the cork board attached to the wall, covered in flyers, posters and ads. Among all the colorful papers was a small, plain strip of paper, and that was what got Geralt’s attention. 

On it was a short sentence, written in Elder. 

‘ _Attention Witcher: Contract available._ ’ 

Below the words was a phone number written in runic. Geralt pulled out his cellphone and keyed in the numbers without a second thought, pressing the phone to his ear and stepping outside of the loud bar. The night was dark and cool, the music behind him nothing but a throb now. The scent of cigarettes and vomit wafted through the air. Typical bar atmosphere. 

“Yeah?” A gravelly man’s voice answered the call after a few rings, annoyed tone to it. 

“Saw your ad.” Geralt grunted. “What’s the contract?” 

The person at the other end paused for a long moment. “You’re a Witcher?” He eventually asked, speaking quietly. 

“I am.” 

The man paused again. “It’s my farm. On the outskirts of town, Buellridge farm?” 

“What of it?” 

“I... I’ve got a ghost problem. I think.” He sighed, and Geralt could hear him scratch his head. “Look, come by tomorrow morning and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. I’d rather not talk about it over the line.” 

“I’m going to need to prepare special means for wraith-hunting. Ingredients aren’t cheap to replace.” 

“Whatever it costs, I can pay.” 

“Fine. I’ll be there at 10am.” 

Geralt hung up and pocketed his phone with a sigh. Wraiths were never simple jobs, in his experience. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, but if the client was good for it, the effort would be well worth his while. It would be nice to get a decent payout, for once in a long time. 

He glanced back at the bar, hearing the music loud through his sensitive ears again. He could see Jaskier through the window crouching on the edge of the stage, mic in hand, belting out some song that sounded vaguely familiar. Without a second thought, he turned back and headed across the dark street towards the motel. 

\-- 

The sun streaming in through the window gently warmed Jaskier’s skin as he stirred awake. His head was pounding and his throat was sore, and he didn’t feel like opening his eyes against that glow of sunlight; but when he felt something shift under him, he blinked them open. It took a few moments to register his surroundings to remember where he was, finding himself in a strange bed, stark naked except for his rumpled T-shirt, resting on some snoring person’s chest. He looked around, disoriented, light far too bright for his sensitive eyes. He felt a brief panic flare up when he didn’t see Geralt anywhere. 

Then he glanced up at the person’s face, and it all came flooding back. That tall, handsome guitarist from the band he’d played with, inviting him over since he was right down the street, their drunken tumble in the sheets. 

Jaskier forced his panic back down and rubbed his face before he pushed himself up into a sitting position to look around for his clothes. He pulled absent-mindedly at his T-shirt, wondering what drunken Jaskier had told the other man as an excuse to keep his shirt on and his scars hidden. It rather annoyed him that even wasted he’d been too self-conscious about them. He picked his boxer briefs off the floor with a sigh and pulled them on, then raised his arms to stretch. He felt the ache in every part of his body from getting twisted into all sorts of unnatural shapes. A good ache, though. 

The guitarist, whose name Jaskier wasn’t sure he ever knew, stirred awake and planted a hand on Jaskier’s hip. “Ready for round 4?” He mumbled, eyes still closed. Jaskier smirked, glancing over at the man. He really was very handsome. Auburn hair, sharp face with just enough of a close-cropped beard to soften it up. He’d done well for himself, considering how plastered he was by the end of it that he easily could have ended up with just about anyone at that bar. 

“I’m always ready for a round 4,” Jaskier found his voice hoarse, struggling to get his vocal cords to obey him, “but unfortunately I must make the walk of shame back to my motel room before my friend decides to leave town without me.” He sighed, wondering if Geralt had already left, felt that panic threatening to rise again. He probably should have gotten his phone number days ago. Not that the Witcher wouldn’t just block his number. He wasn’t really sure what he’d do if Geralt left him behind, but he was too hungover and fuzzy-headed to think very deeply beyond ‘get back to the motel’ right now. 

The guitarist blinked his eyes open and pushed himself up. “You’re leaving town already?” 

Jaskier slid off the bed and padded around gathering the rest of his clothes, pulling on his pants when he’d found them, “I’m on a sort of... eh, road trip.” 

“Like, music touring?” 

“Mm, more like...” He thought about that for a moment while he pulled on his shoes. “Searching for a muse? Trying to work out what pleases me.” 

“Ah, an inspirational pilgrimage.” The musician nodded knowingly before getting up himself and pulling on a pair of sweatpants, grabbing a cigarette and sticking it behind his ear. “Always wanted to do that. Maybe I will someday, when Abby and the Beasts inevitably falls apart.” He sighed. 

Jaskier glanced back at the man. “Well, that’s rather bleak. Perhaps you’ll see the world on tour with them instead.” He offered a cheerful smile as he pocketed his wallet and phone. 

The man laughed and leaned against the wall next to the door, crossing his arms. “You really are a pocket-full of sunshine, aren’t you?” 

“A full handbag, really. Gucci.” 

“Damn, gimme some of that.” 

“I think I’ve given you plenty.” Jaskier said suggestively, finally fully clothed, adjusting his scarf and heading towards the door. He leaned against it for a moment, looking up at the tall man. “Perhaps we shall cross artistic paths again, I think I owe poor Abby a duet at least.” 

The guitarist sighed wistfully, pushing off the wall and stepping up to face Jaskier, hands in his pockets. “Man, I’m gonna have to deal with her passive aggressing the shit out of everything for the next few days.” He came close, unaggressively backing Jaskier against the door, leaned down and brushed a kiss to his lips, both of them fluttering their eyes closed. “Worth it, though.” He murmured, hot breath ghosting across Jaskier’s face. He opened his eyes and flicked up a card between his fingers, holding it up for Jaskier, “You’re ever back in town, call me?” 

Jaskier smiled and took the card, reaching backwards for the door handle. “That’s my line.” He pushed the door open behind him, winked and turned on his heel, heading out. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he tossed the card in the trashcan. Honestly, he knew only awkward things came of trying to keep contact with a guy whose name he hadn’t ever even asked. What was he supposed to say? ‘Hey... you, the guy I let fuck me all night despite not even knowing your name, let’s chat about our musical careers so I can continue to dance around the fact that I’d recognize your dick before your name on a list’. 

The morning air was crisp when he stepped outside of the apartment building, and he breathed it in, trying to cut through his cotton brain as he walked down the street, wobbly on his legs, feeling heavy and unsteady. God, he hoped Geralt was still there. He felt a slight sickness forming in his stomach at the idea that he might be long gone, panic threatening to drop him. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief when he spotted that shining, black monster of a motorcycle in the motel parking lot, completely dwarfing his own ride beside it. Roach and the little monstrosity, as Geralt called it, seemed like good buddies. More than Jaskier could say for their owners. Well, he was nothing if not determined. He was confident in his ability to change that. 

Jaskier pushed the door of the motel room open and stumbled in. Geralt glanced up from his place at the desk in the room, raising an eyebrow at the younger man’s disheveled appearance. It had briefly crossed his mind what had happened to Jaskier when he never showed up at the motel last night, whether he was drowning in his own puke in the street or something; but his senses told him everything he needed to know. He smelled like sex, alcohol and weed. Mostly sex.

“Daddy’s home.” Jaskier said hoarsely before dropping himself in a faceplant on the bed. Geralt’s bed, to his annoyance. 

“Get off my bed.” 

“Sure, just... give me a minute, my limbs are numb.” Jaskier mumbled, muffled in the blankets. 

“You sound like you drank Clorox.” Geralt grunted, turning back to grinding up a flower in his little mortar and pestle. 

“This is why I don’t do rock.” Jaskier squeaked into the blankets, voice breaking up. He’d growled and shouted his voice raw last night. Not to mention all the other things afterwards. “What are you doing, anyway?” 

“Preparing to kill a wraith.” 

Jaskier perked his head up at that. “Wraith? Like a ghost?” 

“Spirit of a departed person, yes.” 

Jaskier pushed himself up, with a degree of difficulty, into a sitting position and looked over at what Geralt was doing. The various plants and bottles scattered across the desk, the mortar and pestle. A few small containers that looked like... bombs? Jaskier blinked. “Are we... _blowing up_ the ghosts?” 

“Moon dust.” Geralt said, nodding at the bombs. “Turns wraiths corporeal, momentarily.” 

“Oh, I would _love_ to see that." Jaskier's eyes brightened. "Or maybe I wouldn’t? I’m still processing the idea that The Haunting of Hill House was based on more facts than some American history textbooks.” 

The Witcher sighed tiredly as he poured the crushed flower into another bowl where there was a white, oily substance. “Wraiths are dangerous, do I need to tie you to a fencepost to keep you out of my way?” He grunted, beginning to mix the ingredients together. Wraiths were a tricky fight, required planning. He didn’t need a loose cannon in the mix. It was going to get messy enough as it was. 

“Kinky, but no.” Jaskier raised his arms to stretch, arching his spine and cracking his neck. “I have the fifth most terrible hangover in my personal history, and a project to finish. I’ll be hanging back this time, ol’ boy.” 

“Praise Melitele.” Geralt grunted with relief. 

“Beg pardon?” 

“Don’t go through my things while I’m gone.” Geralt poured the mixed oil onto a rag and picked up his silver sword, beginning to rub it along the blade. It gave the metal a glowing sheen. 

“Well now that you’ve said that, I absolutely cannot promise.” 

Geralt thought on that for a second as he worked the blade. “Then you should absolutely touch all of the potions. Especially the ones that may burn your flesh away.” 

“So that’s your secret to such youthful skin, eh.” 

“Something like that.” 

After some bantering back and forth while Geralt prepared his supplies for the fight, Jaskier finally dragged himself off of the Witcher’s bed and went over to his own to retrieve his laptop. To Geralt’s relief, the younger man fell into blessed silence as he focused on the screen. 

When Geralt was packed and ready and headed for the door with his sword sheathed and hanging from his back, Jaskier finally spoke up, “You’re not going to jump ship on your old friend after you brutally slay Casper, are you?” Geralt could feel those piercing blue eyes at his back. 

Geralt glanced over at him, a scathing retort ready on his tongue. Although the musician spoke playfully, a clipped tone just barely audible in his voice and the sharp scent of anxiety gave the Witcher pause. Was Jaskier truly so fearful of being left behind? He didn’t really have time to think about that right now, but he softened his response regardless. “We’re not friends,” He nodded at the pile of bags at the foot of his bed, “but I’m not leaving without those.” With that, he opened the door and headed out, closing it behind him. 

Jaskier stared at the door for a long while before finally glancing over at the Witcher’s bags, allowing that comment to reassure him. “Ah, well. Even if he did leave, he’d march right back when he hears this on the radio.” He told himself cheerfully as he went back to ensuring his new song was ready for export. 

By the end of the day, he wouldn’t need to worry about the Witcher considering him useless dead weight ever again. 

Well, probably. 

\-- 

The fog that had been rolling in early morning was beginning to dissipate as the sunbeams broke through it, the heat of noon nearing. The fields of Buellridge farm were surrounded by thin woodlands on the outskirts of town. The sweet and earthy scents of corn, beans and other growing vegetables flowed into Geralt’s nostrils as he pulled up, switching off his motorcycle once he was satisfied she was parked in a safe space. He lifted his sunglasses to his head and pulled his sword from its compartment, swinging it onto his back. 

The farmhouse seemed on the older side, rebuilt and patched up in many areas. The blue paint was faded and chipping, and the grassy areas were overgrown with weeds. Not that Geralt ever minded overgrowth. Overgrowth meant wildflowers, and wildflowers were good for the pollinators. He never liked those ridiculously manicured lawns the humans were so fond of. Useless, ugly, barren wastelands. 

Geralt strode up to the front door and rang the bell, glancing around as he did so. A few colorful chickens were pecking at the ground a short way away, but he couldn’t smell any other animals other than a faint, long-gone odor of cow. It was eerily quiet, for such a large farm. Surely there should be hands tending the fields? 

Finally, Geralt heard rickety footsteps heading his way and the old door squeaked open, revealing an elderly man with sparse, white hair and drooping eyes that looked him over cautiously. “Ah, Witcher.” The gravelly voice from the phone last night. “Right on time. Please, come in.” He pushed the door open wider and turned to head inside. Geralt ducked his head under the short doorframe and followed behind. 

The home was decorated exactly how you’d imagine a farmhouse to be decorated. Paintings and statuettes of roosters, floral cloth, everything made of worn but genuine wood. It could have been cozy, if it weren’t so... lifeless. Dark, gray and dull; Geralt could feel a heavy sadness hanging in the empty air. Such a large home shouldn't be so eerily quiet.

The old man lead him into the kitchen, which smelled like watered-down coffee and TV-dinners. Surprising, for a farm. Usually they smelled of fresh vegetables and home cooking, ripening tomatoes in the windowsill and fresh raw milk. This kitchen just felt... depressing. 

“Coffee?” The old man offered gruffly, gesturing to the small table beside the window that overlooked the farm. 

Geralt declined with a shake of his head, and they both sat down at the table. “What makes you think you have a ghost problem?” 

The old man clasped his hands, glancing down at the table. “Something’s been... killing, my farm. I used to have cows, you know. Something killed them all. And a whole field of vegetables rotted in a night.” 

“What makes you think it's not a simple predator problem and misfortune?” 

“I did, at first.” The man scratched the back of his head with a tired sigh. “Until we found one of my farm hands dead one morning. Cold as ice, he was. Frostbite everywhere, but it had been the warmest day of the week. Best we could tell, he had been strangled.” 

“Your other workers had alibis?” 

“Solid, every one of them.” 

“Hmm.” 

“The real clincher? I seen it. The ghost.” The man had a haunted look in his eyes, shivered as he thought on it. “Could barely see it, was so transparent in the afternoon sunlight. But it was humanoid, covered in tattered cloth, drifting along. The grass under it died where it walked, and then it just... disappeared.” 

Geralt rubbed his chin thoughtfully, glancing out the window at the fields. He was silent for a long while, letting everything he’d learned and everything he’d sensed since the moment he’d pulled up here process in his mind. Finally, he clasped his hands and looked straight at the old man. “Someone died here, on this land. A young woman, died violently before her wedding. Who?” 

The man looked shocked, the hair on his neck standing up, eyes going defensive. His mouth gaped. “Why does it matter? Can’t you just get rid of the ghost?” 

“It matters.” Geralt rumbled. “I suspect you have a noonwraith on your hands, which means it has something tragic tying it to this realm. I can’t guarantee I can rid you of it if I don’t know what is keeping it here. If you want your wraith issue dealt with, I need you to be honest with me.” 

The old man swallowed, looking silently down at his hands for a long time. He trembled just a little, expression one of internal conflict and traumatic memories. Geralt was eager to get to work, but he would give the man the time he needed. 

“My daughter.” He finally whispered, throat tight with mourning, eyes glittering. “Anna.” 

“What happened?” Geralt asked, not ungently. 

The man’s mouth moved for a bit before any sound came out. “A year ago. She ah... she was going to be married. You’re right on that. James, his name was... she... she loved him more than anything. I never thought he was good enough for her.” He shook his head and swallowed. “One night she headed out into the farm to look for him, and found him... with the young lady I hired to tend to the cows. I heard shouting, wailing that stood my hair on end, and I... I was too far away. Hip problems, you know... By the time I got there, that... bastard had already strangled the life out of her.” The man’s throat had tightened up as he spoke, his voice nothing but a whisper by the end of it. 

Geralt gave the man some time to recover before asking, “What was done with the body?” 

“We cremated her. Spread her ashes at the foot of the gnarled tree out there." The old man’s voice was soft and fond and full of loss. "She loved to read under that tree.” 

“What of the engagement ring?” 

“Don’t know. She always wore it, but it was missing from her body.” 

Geralt nodded. He had an idea where he might find the ring; which, he believed, was what kept her here. Considering her body had already been burned, and the ring was a symbol of the betrayal that took place at the time of her death, it is one of few things that could have the power to keep the spirit tethered to this realm. 

“Show me where the incident took place, and I will help her spirit to rest.” 

\-- 

Jaskier rubbed his groggy eyes, the symbols on his screen beginning to blur together. He was far too hungover for this sort of work, but he had to get it done today. He’d set a deadline for himself, and he intended to keep it. Even if it was the worst possible day for such business.

The cover art he’d called in a favor from an old college-mate for had come out beautifully. A semi-realistic digital painting of a man that resembled Jaskier in the flamboyant uniform of a medieval bard with a lute strapped to his back, walking beside a muscular man on a horse who bore the best resemblance to Geralt as possible referencing the candid photo Jaskier had snuck of the man when he wasn’t looking. He had two swords on his back, something Jaskier had come up with after a conversation with Geralt one night when the man was cleaning his weaponry. 

_“Is... is that a gun?”_ _Jaskier_ _had asked when he realized the Witcher had a pistol taken apart on his sleeping bag while he cleaned each piece._

_“No, it’s a fairy princess wand.” Geralt replied sarcastically._

_“Are some monsters more_ _susceptible_ _to bullets than silver swords?”_ _Jaskier_ _went on, ignoring the Witcher’s sarcasm. “Or do you just get tired and decide to blow their heads off instead of doing it the hard way?”_

_“The best way to kill most monsters is with silver.”_ _Geralt_ _responded, not looking up from his work. “Steel weapons are for humans.”_

_“...I thought you only killed non-sentient creatures?”_

_“It’s a dangerous world for things like me.”_ _Geralt_ _said, tone clipped. “There are men who see me as no less a monster than the rest. There are men who would see me_ _dead._ _I kill humans in self-defense only. Most of the time, I only have to threaten.”_

_“Please tell me you at least have a permit.”_

_“I have a permit for everything.”_

Silver for monsters, steel for humans. In this medieval fantasy world that Jaskier had envisioned as the theme of his project, Witchers would carry a silver sword and a steel sword. Perhaps that was exactly what they had done, if Witchers had existed back in medieval times. He would have to bother the man about their history sometime. 

At any rate, the cover art required some finishing touches that brought Jaskier’s entire plan together; wording in elder runes decorating the edges, applied in his pirated copy of Photoshop. Of course, that meant Jaskier had had to create an entire font using these runes, which meant he had to study the elder language book he’d digitized from bitmapping photos he’d taken while residing with Raully, which meant brain, which meant he was currently on his 5th cup of coffee, which meant he was racking up the cost of this room by using the non-complimentary K-cups, which meant Geralt was going to murder him when he got the bill. 

Ah, well. If all went to plan, he could pay him back later. 

Jaskier leaned back and stretched, taking in a long breath and exhaling slowly. He’d gone over his work at least 10 times to ensure it was all correctly translatable and clearly distinguishable from the background, and finally felt satisfied. It all rested on this, so it needed to be perfect. He considered waiting until tomorrow to move onto the next step to ensure the hangover wasn’t addling his brain, or perhaps running it by Geralt, but he hadn’t the time to spare. So instead, Jaskier decided to be satisfied with it, and prepared to move onto the next step. He grabbed his phone, and began scrolling through his extensive contacts list before selecting the one he was looking for and hitting ‘call’. 

After a few rings, a man’s voice answered the phone, crackling with static. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little Dandelion. How long has it been?” 

Jaskier leaned back, examining his nails, “Benjamin, my dear friend. It has been some time indeed. Still running that popular radio station?” 

“Why do I get the feeling that question is more than just small talk?” 

“Why, I never-” 

“What do you want, Jaskier?” 

“Ah, skipping the foreplay today, are we?” Jaskier grinned. “Very well, then. You recall that big favor you owe me? I’m cashing it in, and you only have to do one little thing...” 

\-- 

The abandoned cow pen looked like no one had been near it in months. Which was entirely possible. The old man pointed it out but wouldn’t lead him to it, and Geralt didn’t push. It may be a very long time, if ever, until the man could go near the place his only child had been so brutally murdered. Geralt understood. He told the man to wait inside and stay safe, and went about his business. 

Now, Geralt had set himself to searching the area. Even a year later, the putrid scent of death hung over the place. Perhaps it was from the cows. Anna’s spirit must have killed them as revenge against the cow handler, Geralt figured. But the Witcher was searching for a different scent. Metallic, perhaps gold or silver. 

Geralt imagined the young woman had ripped the ring from her finger and tossed it in despair when she caught her fiancé in the act. A typical human reaction to such a thing. Such a tiny object would be difficult to find, particularly under so much overgrowth. But Geralt’s senses were tuned to such a finite degree, it was only a matter of time. He put his nose to the wind and turned his sharp eyes to the ground. 

At last, a glint buried deep in the grass as he brushed it aside. His efforts paid off and his hunch proven correct as he lifted the little gold and diamond ring, dulled by its time in the weather and dirt, up for examination. The moment it touched his skin, a powerful despair coursed through his veins. Anger, betrayal, bloodthirst. He nearly shivered from the chill of it. 

This ring was a tether to an angry soul, he could feel it beyond doubt now. 

“Now then, Anna.” Geralt rumbled, getting to his feet and heading over to the small clearing beside the cow pen where the murder had taken place. “It’s time you let go of all that anger. I do not know if there is a place you will go after this, but rest you will. I promise you that.” 

Geralt walked the circumference of the clearing, trying to decide on his strategy. His moon dust bombs were within reach, and his sword glistened with specter oil. But it never hurt to be careful, so he began setting traps around the clearing. Holding his hand out to the ground, Geralt muttered, “ _Yrden_.” At once, a glowing, purple field erupted on the ground in the shape of a circle. He repeated this two more times at strategic areas around the clearing before finally heading towards the center. 

Feeling prepared, Geralt set the ring down on the ground and held his hand up in a sign. 

“ _Igni_.”

The second the fire touched the ring, Geralt felt a cold presence chill his spine. A green glowing erupted from the ring and shrieking filled the air. Geralt jumped back just as the wraith materialized, a gust of cold wind blowing his hair back. 

Perhaps this creature had once been the youthful beauty that Geralt had seen in the photos of the old man’s house, with warm brown eyes and sun-kissed skin. But now the thing that floated before him was a decayed husk, barely recognizable as human, draped in a frayed, white dress. The remnants of its neck were burned with handprints. Its lower jaw was gone, in place of it was a long tongue curling out, gurgling with cries. Eyes nothing but expressionless holes, yet its skull and body posture shook with fury. 

It launched itself for Geralt, but he was ready. He leapt aside and the wraith flew into the Yrden trap. With an enraged screech, its form flashed and turned opaque. Geralt wasted no time, turning on his heel and bringing down his sword. It slashed straight through the corporeal form, causing it to cry out in pain before disappearing. 

Geralt knew the fight wasn’t over just yet, and instinctively ducked just as the wraith rematerialized and swiped at him with its clawed, mangled fingers. His eyes were quicker than it could move, and he tossed a moon dust bomb directly at it before ducking and rolling away from the blast. The small explosion popped, throwing up dirt and grass and the dust enveloped the wraith, which screamed as it was once again forced into corporeal form. This time, Geralt launched himself at it, driving his sword into its chest and straight up before ripping it out and swinging it in a lightning-fast motion, lobbing the head off. 

With a gurgled sound, the wraith’s remains fell to the ground and crumbled into a pale blue dust. 

Geralt breathed out, pushing a long strand of white hair out of his eyes. This had gone quicker than past experiences with noonwraiths. Likely, Anna’s spirit had not been as strong as some he had grappled with before. Most of his past wraiths had been old creatures, having years or even decades to manifest in power. Anna's spirit had only wandered for a year. He sheathed his sword and stood up straight, listening to his quiet surroundings. 

He didn’t know what happened to these spirits after they were destroyed. He didn’t know if they went somewhere better or worse, or if they then ceased to exist. Perhaps he was killing the one chance anyone had at an afterlife. Geralt only hoped that, wherever Anna’s spirit went now, she would be at peace. Free of pain and anger any longer. 

Then he frowned. 

Geralt could feel it, when an area was haunted. He could sense the presence, felt the death. It hung over an area as long as a spirit resided. But once a spirit was destroyed, that heaviness in the air would lift. Life would return, natural energy restored. The feeling of death blown away in the wind. 

There was no doubt this noonwraith had been destroyed, but that feeling lingered. He still sensed anger, bloodthirst. He still felt... a presence. 

Suddenly, a screech filled the air and a searing pain erupted from Geralt’s arm, a set of claws slicing through his flesh. He snarled and leapt away, turning wildly to face his enemy. 

Geralt found himself face-to-face with a second spirit. A male wraith, with a burning fury in its eyes and a gaping bullet-wound through the center of its forehead. 

It screamed and launched itself at Geralt once again. 

\-- 

After hours of calling and e-mailing various contacts in an attempt to give his song the boost it needed to go viral, to reach as many ears as possible, Jaskier finally closed his laptop and lay back with a long sigh. He prayed this worked. It was the only thing he could do, now. Other than wait. And stare longingly at Geralt's bags. If only they weren't so far away, if only his body didn't feel like it was made of lead.

If everyone upheld their promises, Jaskier would be hearing his own voice on every radio station in America tomorrow morning. It was his trump card, his big entrance he’d been planning for a very long time, saving for when he knew he had a song or album that would set him up for good if he could just get everyone to listen. He was using that now, he was putting all his chips in, but not entirely for himself as he'd imagined. And not at all in the way he thought it would play out. After all, who in their right mind might have anticipated the situation Jaskier had found himself in at all? 

Jaskier glanced over at Geralt's bags again. He had time to kill, and he really wanted to touch the potions.

“Geralt, my friend,” Jaskier mumbled to himself tiredly, instead; looking away from the bags and putting that out of his sleepy mind. “If this works, I don’t expect you to thank me, because you’re fucking impossible. But perhaps you’ll... well, I hope this makes things,” he yawned and turned over on his side, “easier for... for you...” 

Barely a comprehensible thought left in his mind, he soon fell into a much-needed sleep. 

\-- 

Geralt was pinned to the ground, at the center of his Yrden trap, the screaming wraith on top of him, blasting his ears with that horrible noise. The wraith was corporeal as a result, but it was far stronger than the noonwraith had been. Geralt roared with the strain as he tried to push the spirit off of him, tried to reach his sword that had gone flying during the attack. His arm seared with pain from the deep gashes the wraith’s claws had left. 

Finally, he got one hand free and shouted, “ _Aard_ _!_ ”

The wraith was blown back by the telekinetic blast, and Geralt leapt to his feet. He grabbed a moon dust bomb and threw it at the creature, which screamed in anger, blinded by the dust. He used that opportunity to grab his sword from the ground; dirtied, but still glistening with specter oil.

Before it could recover, Geralt was hacking the wraith to pieces with his sword. In moments, it was reduced to a dust pile beside the other, slowly scattering to the wind. 

Geralt marched up to the farmhouse, arm gushing blood, sweat coating his brow, expression furious. The old man said nothing as he opened the door, refusing to look the Witcher in the eye. 

“What didn’t you tell me?” Geralt snarled. Things always, always went wrong when clients didn’t tell him the whole truth. Not many things made him more angry than a client not telling him the whole truth.

The old man nodded slowly, swallowing. He looked haunted and ashamed. He clasped his hands behind him and paced towards the window, a weariness set heavily on his shoulders. Geralt glared at his back, having lost all patience for the man’s grief. He was about to speak up again when the man finally finished his story.

“When I saw my little Anna’s eyes, lifeless, that... subhuman above her, I... I saw red. I had my gun in my hand, I’d grabbed it the moment I heard the screaming. I didn’t think. I couldn't think about anything other than my little Anna's dead eyes. I shot him, point blank, in the head. He crumpled beside her body, dead.” 

Geralt said nothing, just watched the man sink further, shoulders beginning to shake with dry sobs, a hand covering his face.

“I told the police he ran away after he killed Anna. But I had buried his body behind the barn. Just another reason I could never go back there.” He finally looked back at Geralt, eyes brimmed with tears. He looked empty, and so terribly tired. “I’ve felt a lot of things since that day, Witcher. But regret was never one of them. I will never regret avenging my child. Does that make me a monster? Worthy of your blade?” 

Geralt looked down and inhaled, slowly breathing out the anger from his body, closing his eyes. “Sometimes I think man is capable of far greater evil than any creature.” He finally said, thinking more of the atrocity committed by the fiance. When he opened his eyes again and looked at the man before him, he didn't see a killer, he didn't see evil. He just saw a sad, lonely old man with nothing left but a space too big for one and an unfillable emptiness in his heart. “But it is not my place to decide on the evil of humankind.” 

The old man nodded, looking down at the floor. “We all have a monster inside of us.” He said, softly. “Perhaps, in the end, your kind will not view humanity as separate from the realm of creatures.” 

Geralt dipped his head and turned away, heading for the door. 

“That’s well above my pay grade.” 

\-- 

It was late by the time Geralt reached the motel room, physically weary and emotionally drained. Yet, the closer he got to the door, he realized he could hear muffled music playing from within. He unlocked the door with the keycard and headed inside, taking a moment to process the sight within. 

Jaskier lay face down on his bed, seemingly fast asleep. Paper coffee cups lay strewn about everywhere, and the young man had stripped off his shirt and flung it across the room at some point. Most notably, however, his laptop was open, and a song was emanating loudly from it. A tune Geralt had heard the man humming, and the singer was Jaskier himself. The project he had been working on, perhaps? Finally completed?

Geralt focused on the words for a moment. 

“ _...silver tongued devil, his army of elves, at his hooves did they revel..._ ” 

Geralt blinked, frowning. Was this about the incident with the sylvan a few days ago? 

_“They came after me, with masterful deceit, broke down my lute-_ ” Oh, please. _One_ string snapped. Geralt had enough of this. He grabbed a nearby tissue box and hurled it at the sleeping form, hitting Jaskier in the back with a loud clunk. The young man jolted awake with a yelp, looking around wildly, hair messy and standing in every direction. “Wha’s-what? Oh, Geralt, there you are-” 

“That’s literally not even what happened.” Geralt growled, gesturing angrily at the laptop.

Jaskier blinked for a long moment, seemingly trying to process what he was talking about. It took a while before it seemed to register, and he sat up, rubbing his face. “Yes, well... artistic liberties?” 

“I’d have thought you’d have more respect for the elves, all things considered.” Geralt crossed his arms. “You saw how they were living.” 

“Yes, well, they did nearly kill me.” Jaskier pointed out. “Anyway, I do respect them, but... well, respect doesn’t sell.” He sighed, words bitter and wistful. Seemed there was a history behind that tone. Experience. “People like their tea.” 

“Tea? Don't change the subject.” 

“I’m-, what? Oh, nevermind.” Jaskier was far to tired to attempt to explain internet lingo to Geralt right now. He tilted his head, blinking and looking the Witcher over. “What happened to you?” He asked, gesturing to the blood-encrusted gashes on Geralt’s arm with concern.

“I just told you not to change the subject.” Geralt growled.

"Should I get out some bandages-?"

"You should explain your stupid song."

Jaskier rolled his eyes and reached over for the laptop, lowering the volume on the song to a minimum. If Geralt wanted to bleed out, that was on him. “Look, historical accuracy is not really the point. It’s all about catching the ear. You see, my friend-” 

“Not friends.” 

“-if you listen real careful, you’ll realize I’ve woven in certain words that will get anyone of the Valley’s attention. Once their attention leads them to look up the song, they will discover a hidden message!” Jaskier brightened up, looking rather proud of himself as he turned the screen around to show Geralt the album art. “As you can see, the cover art is covered in runes that-” 

“Is that you?” 

“-that, uh, yes.” 

“What the fuck are you wearing- wait, is that me?” 

“Geralt, please, that’s not the-” 

“What the fuck am _I_ wearing?” 

Jaskier snapped his fingers, “Bear with me, two seconds!” 

Geralt snorted, but went quiet. 

“So, as I was saying. The art features runes that, when translated, lead to a website link.” Jaskier explained excitedly. “And while I was tempted beyond belief to make that link lead to Rick Astley, I restrained myself.” He typed in the translated website into the browser, and showed Geralt what came up. A blank page, with a long box; seemingly space to input a password. “And the password is also written in runes at the bottom of the artwork.” Jaskier pointed it out, then typed in the translated password. An admittedly aesthetic web page came up, titled Valley Bounty Board in bold letters. Geralt blinked.

“Now, as admin, only we have access to the detailed hunt information.” Jaskier grinned, “That way no one can snipe your kill. Or, you can make the details public if it's not a hunt you’re interested-” 

“Jaskier, what the fuck is this?” 

“Oh! Okay, so. If someone of the Valley is drawn by my song to the website,” he gestured enthusiastically as he explained, “they will be able to post monster bounties for you, including their pay rate and location, and you’ll be able to pick and choose which bounties you want to take. See, it’s just an easier way to get potential clients connected to you, and the information page will clear up any misgivings about Witchers they might have. Not to mention, having a spiffy website makes you seem very professional and accessible.” 

Geralt felt more perplexed than irritated now. “...What makes you so sure enough people will even hear your song?” 

“Oh, I have my ways.” Jaskier smirked. He wasn’t going to admit how many of the favors he’d called in were in exchange for past sexual favors or promised future ones in order to ensure that song made it far. He did know how to please people in such a way that they would promise him anything. “Anyway, even if only a few people of the Valley hear it, they will tell their friends. It makes it to some Valley healers, it’ll spread. I got Raully to promise to share the website and password with any Valley folk he knows.” 

Geralt gazed at the website thoughtfully for a long while. Jaskier held his breath, searching the Witcher’s face for any anger. He’d said all he could, now it was up to Geralt to realize that this was a good thing for him. That this was going to change things, make his job easier for him. Allow him to stop scrounging, living on nothing. Surely he could see the possibilities? Surely he'd want to keep Jaskier around now that he was useful?

“It’s not going to work.” Geralt grunted, then turned and walked towards his bags to look for his healing potion. 

Jaskier blinked for a long moment, staring at the Witcher's back. After a while, he frowned. “Oh, what a genius idea, Jaskier!" He finally spat out in a mockingly gruff tone. "You’re so brilliant and amazing for working so hard on this project for days just to help me out of the goodness of your heart!” He crossed his arms and pouted. 

Geralt rolled his eyes as he rummaged in his bag. “It’s... an interesting idea.” He grit his teeth as he forced that out. “But it’s not going to work.” He picked out the potion and got to his feet, heading over to the bathroom to clean the wound and wash all the grime from the battle from his skin. 

Jaskier grumbled to himself, laying back on the bed. “You’ll see. Bounties will be flowing in.” He rolled over onto his side and buried his face in the pillow with a huff. “Stupid, unimaginative Witcher.” 

\-- 

“So, it fucking worked.” 

Geralt glanced over to where Jaskier was sitting across the campfire on his phone. He prodded the fire one more time before stifling a sigh. The man would force the conversation anyway, so he might as well play along. “What fucking worked?” Geralt grumbled. 

Jaskier hopped up from the log he had been using as a seat and practically skipped over to Geralt, shoving his phone in the Witcher’s face. “My song! It’s only been two days, and we’ve got 5 bounty posts already!” 

Geralt blinked in surprise, and ripped Jaskier’s phone from his hand. Ignoring the younger man’s complaints, he stared at Jaskier’s little ‘bounty board’. Sure enough, there they were; 5 listings seemingly from across the country, with details on potential monsters that Geralt was quickly identifying in his mind based on their descriptions. A couple of them were even offering considerably high rewards, enough to make him raise his eyebrows. 

“...you didn’t post these under different names to prove a point, did you?” Geralt asked. It certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for Jaskier in particular. 

Jaskier gaped at him. “I’d _never_! Look, call one of the numbers or something, you’ll see!” He huffed, crossing his arms. 

Geralt sighed and pulled his hair back, handing Jaskier his phone, “I just... really didn’t think it was going to work.” 

“Oho, not only did it work, but if we’ve gotten 5 listings in only 2 days of the initial release...” Jaskier brightened up again, “Can you imagine how many we’ll get after it’s had time to run through the- oh! There’s another one!” 

Geralt frowned, however. “You keep saying ‘we’. You know this doesn’t change-” 

“I’mma stop you right there.” Jaskier held a finger up, putting the other hand on his hip. He had an expression like a sassy mom about to absolutely go off on his ass. “Considering the facts that you are technologically incompetent, I could easily pull the plug on the website, and it’s _my_ voice carrying your goddamn career to the far reaches of the continent, I think I have the fucking right to say ‘we’.” 

Geralt blinked up at the younger man. He could snap the kid like a twig anytime he wanted, but he couldn’t deny a strange sense of intimidation as Jaskier stood over him, scolding him like this. So he wisely kept his mouth shut. 

“Honestly, do you have _any_ idea how many years of fucking radio station hosts, popular podcasters, and influential musicians I spent gathering my contacts I just used to get your admittedly picturesque ass out there in the limelight?” He was gesturing wildly now, his voice getting louder. “All those favors I could have spent on myself, I spent on a man I just met not a week ago!” 

“Jas-” 

“Do you have _any_ idea how much mental energy it takes to get a song written and recorded in this short amount of time? I’m fairly certain I lost several braincells wracking my head over this, not to mention speeding up my self-lessons learning a whole new fucking _language_ -!”

“Jaskier!” 

“What?!” 

Geralt held up his hands, “Alright, alright. You win.” 

Jaskier blinked in surprise. “I... win?” 

Geralt let out a long sigh, turning back to the fire. He wasn’t good at words, he wasn’t good at people. He often fought with himself to think of the right thing to say, and opted to go silent instead. But he realized now that he owed Jaskier this much. He wasn’t wrong in any of it, Geralt had to admit. “You uh... you’re right. Your plan worked, and it, uh... I can see it being good for my career, at least for now.” He cleared his throat, refusing to look the younger man in those sharp blue eyes. “So I guess, uh... you’re my manager now.” 

Jaskier stared at him in stunned silence for a long time before slowly cracking a grin. “Fuck yeah, I’m your manager. And your whole PR team.” 

“Whatever. Eat your fucking burger.” Geralt turned away, ending the conversation before it could get any more uncomfortable for him. 

Jaskier let it go, grinning triumphantly. He was feeling dizzy with success, and probably some starvation considering he hadn’t eaten anything except two chocolate chips this morning. He’d been confident the entire time, but now that he’d actually succeeded in his goal, it felt surreal. His hits and album purchases were through the roof. He had more than $20 in the bank for once, and work piling in for his Witcher. He was already thinking of ideas for songs for a whole new album. Soon they would be on the road and absolutely rolling in guts, glory and coin. 

The future looked bright, the world wide and limitless, the road endless. He looked forward to waking up tomorrow, getting on that shitty old bike of his, and seeing where the day took him. 

This was going to be amazing. 

\-- 

_“Aside it’s renown for being incredibly catchy, ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ is a fantasy novel in song form. It immediately draws you into a rich world packed with action, wonder and history, dotted with delightful, self-deprecating humor. One can’t help but feel immediately endeared towards this ‘_ _Geralt_ _’, an unstoppable hero protecting us from monsters in the night. I, for one, cannot wait to be drawn back into this world and follow the adventures of the ‘White Wolf’, told by a fascinating side-character perspective from Mr. Pankratz’ wonderful imagination.” -_ some critic 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we’ve got our plot set down, what monsters would you like to see our boys hunt over this series? Anything is on the table, from canon Witcher monsters to creatures from other folklores. The setting is America, where everyone brought their motherland's monsters. Anything is game, so call it out and I might feature it in a future chapter! 


	5. The Game is Afoot

Jaskier ran, shoes splashing in the shallow puddles of runoff that collected in the cracks of the stone floor. The hall was a blur as he sped, eyes trained on the open doorway ahead, hints of machinery and firelight evident beyond it. If he could just make it through in time, he could close the door behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, and his legs carried him as fast as they could go. He ran, he ran like hell, the hellish creature crying out behind him and getting closer with every heartbeat. The doorway was so close, so close, so close- 

Suddenly, Jaskier’s shoe slipped, and he went crashing to the floor with a cry. 

He hadn’t a moment to right himself when suddenly the monster was upon him, snarling in his ears and clawing at his body, tearing into his clothes and his flesh. He screamed, pain and terror and panic bursting out from him. Flashbacks of the werewolf attack, of his torn-open chest, of a brush so close to death he could taste the cold of it. The beast pinned him to the floor, like the werewolf before it, peeling back its outer lips to expose the gums and shining layers of razor-sharp teeth. 

The beast launched its face downward, sinking those teeth into the soft tissue at the base of his neck, throbbing with blood. 

His gurgling cry cut short in his throat. 

\-- 

**_Three days ago_ **

“I’ve been thinking.” 

Jaskier’s voice stirred Geralt from his own thoughts. Not that it had been long since he’d stopped talking, but these days Geralt had to make every moment of silence count. They were rare and far between. 

“Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t.” Geralt muttered. 

Jaskier pouted, “Hey now, it was my thinking that got you here in the first place!” 

“A hot dog stand outside a nowhere town during a heatwave?” 

“These are the best fucking hot dogs you’ve ever had and you know it.” 

"They're mediocre, you just haven’t eaten in two days.” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jaskier huffed, peeling back the tin foil on his half-eaten hot dog, “I’ve been thinking I should give my bike a name, like yours.” 

“I wouldn’t get attached, that trash pile is going to fall apart any day now.” Geralt pointed out before biting into his own hot dog. 

“You’ve been saying that since day one, and yet here he stands.” Jaskier glanced down fondly at his bike from where he leaned against it. The rust, lack of power and jury-rigged composition were just character in his eyes. The little thing certainly had a lot of that; even without a name, Jaskier was already attached. 

“How about Frankenstein’s Monster?” Geralt muttered. “Or Zombie.” 

“You ought to do stand-up, really.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and wiped sweat from his brow under the unrelenting sun. “I like the theme though, some kind of mythological creature I think...” 

“Speaking of mythological creatures,” Geralt pushed to change the subject, “what of my- _our_ contact?” He caught himself before he caused Jaskier to go on a tangent about saying ‘we/us/our’, since they were a team now and all. 

Jaskier, thankfully either oblivious to or intentionally ignoring his misspeak, swallowed a bite of hot dog and glanced down at his phone. “Still no response. It’s odd, I spoke with him a night ago. He did say he would explain the case when we got there, but I can't understand why he won’t at least confirm we have the address correct.” 

“Might be a trap.” Geralt grumbled, glancing around him casually, looking for potential suspicious characters. He was distracted by the bright sunlight, his sunglasses nearly not enough to shield his sensitive eyes. “Could be a Knight posing as a client.” 

“Why would they do that?” Jaskier furrowed his brow at him. “Wouldn’t they want you to stay away?” 

“Some are more aggressive in their hatred for Witchers. Knights have tried to kill me in the past.” 

Jaskier blinked, feeling his heart sink from this revelation. He hadn’t realized that could be a potential danger of putting his beautiful Witcher out there. Hell, he’d hardly thought of the Knights at all beyond trying to convince the general Valley folk that they were wrong and that Witchers were a force for good. He didn’t really think about what might happen if one of them ended up on the website. Had he made a horrendous mistake, and made things worse for Geralt after all? 

“Perhaps we should just move on, then...” Jaskier looked down, feeling deflated. There were other less suspicious-looking bounties on the board. But now that he thought of it, there was no reason a Knight couldn’t put up a more convincing-looking trap bounty. What if they were _all_ traps?

Geralt sensed Jaskier’s despair, however, and glanced over at his crestfallen face with a slight frown. Despite everything they’d been through thus far, he realized this was the first time he’d ever seen Jaskier doubt himself. It was strange, considering this was hardly the most dangerous situation they’d found themselves in. It didn’t feel like the confident, careless Jaskier he’d been stuck with so far. “We’ll stick to the plan and go to the address we were given.” Geralt said, trying to sound casual. Perhaps if he sounded confident, Jaskier would forget his doubt. 

“But if it _is_ a trap-?” The young man still sounded anxious. 

“I’m not afraid of Knights, they’re just humans.” Geralt shrugged. “If it is a trap, I will get out of it. It’s no more a risk than it’s ever been.” 

“But what if-” 

“Get your bike started, we’re heading over now.” Geralt grunted with finality as he finished the last bite of his hot dog and crumpled up the wrapping. He’d quarreled with Knights in the past. They were just people, Geralt could fight them off with his eyes closed and a hand tied behind his back. He was built to defeat far more dangerous things than a handful of arrogant humans. He wasn’t worried. 

Jaskier bit his lip as he watched the Witcher toss the wrapping in the bin and then reach down to start Roach. He dearly hoped Geralt was right. Mythological beasts were one thing, but Jaskier knew firsthand the cruelty of man. He wasn’t afraid for himself, but he wasn’t certain he could live with it if he got Geralt captured. 

More often than not, humans were the real monsters. 

It didn’t take very long for Geralt to start feeling a sense of unease about this place. 

As the pair rode through the small town, he couldn’t help but notice how empty it was. At first, he chalked that up to the heatwave, until his nose began to pick up the scent of fear. Strong, sour and alarming. The few people that were out and about seemed anxious, watching Geralt and Jaskier out of the corners of their eyes as they rode by. A woman in a second story window closed her shades. A man hurried his children into the house. Geralt hadn’t the faintest idea what would make so many people so fearful of strangers. Perhaps they’d had a bad run-in with bikers before? But the two of them hardly looked like a threatening gang. 

He shook his head and focused on the road in front of him. This was hardly his first encounter with a strange small town. Humans were weird, and had the capacity to adopt weird hive-mind mentalities over the oddest things. He’d stopped trying to understand it long ago. He just hoped Jaskier hadn’t noticed. The man was acting squirrely enough as it was. 

“Left here!” Jaskier called out over the loud motors, insecure tinge to his voice as he gestured towards the upcoming street when Geralt glanced back at him. Geralt nodded in acknowledgement and set his blinkers before the pair of them made the turn. 

This street was a residential area, with small, quaint houses and somewhat-overgrown lawns. Just as eerily quiet as the rest of the town, the window shades shut and not a soul in sight. Geralt hoped that, if this was to be a hunt, it would be a quick one. Jaskier directed them into the driveway of a gray house, not so different from the rest. It was made private by the tall hedges and strategic trees, hidden from view by any neighbor except the house immediately across the street, which appeared to be vacant. The windows on the client’s house were dark, not a sign that any lights were on through the curtains. Good place to spring a trap, no witnesses. Geralt didn’t have a very good feeling about this, but he was determined not to let that show. 

The pair parked their motorcycles and turned them off. Geralt glanced around before double-checking that the weapons hidden on his person were accounted for. If this was a trap, he would be ready. 

“You’re certain this is it?” Geralt asked gruffly as he crossed the driveway, heading for the walkway that lead up to the door. 

Jaskier was nervously picking at his fingernails as he trailed behind. “I’m sure, but wouldn’t you rather-” 

“You can stay back, if you’re afraid.” Geralt grunted, heading up the steps. Although, it would probably be better if Jaskier stuck close to him, the more he thought on it. The last time he let Jaskier out of his sight in a trap situation, a doppler had used the young man as leverage. 

Jaskier scoffed, at any rate. “Me? Afraid? Please, the only thing I’m afraid of is the hundred-scoop at Marlo’s Ice Cream Parlor, and that’s more trauma than fear.” 

Geralt didn’t bother pointing out the strong scent of unease emanating from him. Rather, he reached out and rang the doorbell, other hand hovering over where he hid his pistol. He could hear the shrill dinging of it within the walls of the home, ears ringing with it after the sound ended. He stood there for a while, waiting and listening, Jaskier fidgeting at his elbow a few steps below him. However, he couldn’t hear anything coming from inside the house. No sign of anyone coming to the door. Couldn’t smell anything beyond the faded scent of someone using this door, yesterday perhaps. Nothing fresh. 

“Well, I guess no one’s home!” Jaskier backed up a bit with a false cheerful tone. “You know, there was another bounty a few towns over, we could be there in a couple of days if we start off now!” 

“Hold on.” Geralt looked down at the door with a frown. There were strange scratch marks on the lock. On a hunch, he reached out and tried the handle. It turned easily, unlocked, and the door slowly fell open, the light of day spilling into the darkness. 

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier squeaked. “This is breaking and entering! You can’t break and enter in the middle of the day!” 

“Technically it’s just entering.” Geralt shrugged, and stepped inside. “Someone else did the breaking.” 

Jaskier blinked and quickly scaled the steps behind the Witcher, following him inside; unease slowly replaced by cautious curiosity. Geralt wasn’t wrong, Jaskier quickly realized. A lamp that seemed to have sat on the entryway side table lay shattered on the floor, the hallway rug was thrown back, and a part of the wooden staircase railing snapped off with a smattering of sawdust. 

The thing that hit them the hardest, however, was the smell. 

“Is that... garlic?” Jaskier wrinkled his nose at the stench. He loved garlic as much as the next guy, but this was a whole other level. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he realized it was indeed garlic. Cloves of garlic, absolutely everywhere. Lining the windowsills, the tables, clusters hanging from the ceiling. “Who just leaves garlic everywhere?” Jaskier asked incredulously, pinching his nose closed. “Some kind of asshole!” 

“I think our friend was afraid vampires were after him.” Geralt grunted as he strode down the hall, gazing around with his enhanced eyes and sniffing for any signs of the home’s occupant. Hard to do, through the wave of garlic stench. “Not that garlic would help him much.” 

“ _Vampires_?!” Jaskier glanced up in alarm, hurrying to stay close to Geralt. This dark, empty house felt wrong and filled him with a different kind of unease from before. “Are we talking Twilight or Nosferatu?” 

“Not sure. There’s at least ten different kinds." 

Jaskier stared up at him wide-eyed. “...alright, we’re finding the nearest Valley healer and buying a monster compendium so this shit can't catch me by surprise anymore.” 

“So you can keep me up at night asking whether I think that rustle in the woods was a ghoul or a kikimore?” 

“I could keep you up at night asking you to explain what a ghoul or a kikimore _is_ instead.” 

“...fair point.” 

“Besides, like I said before I- oh. Oh god.” 

Geralt looked back to where Jaskier had stopped in front of a doorway. Light was streaming in from a shattered window, a light breeze drifting in through it. Glass twinkling all over the floor, among the flung garlic slices that had once lain across the window. There were deep gauges in the floor and wall, long like claw marks. Most alarmingly, however, were the dark red stains. Dry, certainly not fresh, but a decent amount of it sunk into the wood and splattered along the glass pieces. 

“Is that, um. Is that-” 

“Blood.” Geralt grunted, sniffing the air, that coppery taste on his tongue. “It is.” 

“So, our client is dead.” Jaskier sighed exasperatedly. “Of course, our first Board client and he’s dead. What a way to christen this thing.” Well, at least it wasn’t a Knight trap, he couldn’t help but think, a little selfishly perhaps. 

“Not necessarily. The creature may have taken him alive.” 

“Should we...” Jaskier blinked, “call the authorities...?” 

“Have you touched anything?” 

“Ehm, no?” 

“Then no.” 

“Geralt, a man might be dead!” 

“You want to walk into the police station as a strange outsider in a suspicious town and inform them a resident was killed or taken by a vampire?” 

“...ah, right...” Jaskier frowned, finding it a bit odd that this had all become normal enough to him in such a short period of time that he’d forgotten most people wouldn’t believe any of it. 

“Come on. Let’s see if we can pick up the trail outside.” Geralt turned and started back for the door. “I can’t smell anything through all this garlic.” 

“Well, this is exciting!” Jaskier practically skipped after Geralt, tucking his hands into his pockets to keep himself from touching anything. He was an impulsive, tactile person, and it was all the more difficult to rein himself in now that he knew he couldn’t. The worry about the whole Knights thing had evaporated in the face of this mystery, and he was once again feeling chipper. “We’re like Holmes and Watson. A private detective here to solve the grisly murder, side-by-side with his morally supportive best friend, brimming with homoerotic subtext." 

Geralt rolled his eyes as he passed through the door, not deigning that with a response. 

“Wait, shouldn’t you wipe down the door handle?” Jaskier reminded Geralt as he stepped through the door, and the Witcher closed it behind him. “Don’t need CSI dusting your fingerprints should the client be reported missing before we find him, eh?” 

“Witchers don’t have fingerprints.” Geralt shrugged, then walked down the steps and started around the front yard, heading to the side of the house where the window was broken into. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows at that, following behind. “Like... born without them, or-” 

“Another time.” Geralt grunted. “Let’s make this quick.” 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one.” Jaskier muttered. 

The side of the house was as overgrown as the rest of it. Shrubs wild, vines snaking, grass up to the knees. Little insects flitted around in the warm air, between the blades of grass, seeking out the little flowers that brought pops of color to the bleaching green expanse. Not that Geralt thought of overgrowth as a bad thing, but the home had clearly become neglected, long before the client disappeared. He waded through the grass, pushing aside the overgrown hedge and heading for the smashed window, now in his line of sight. 

“Hmm...” Geralt stroked his chin as he paced around the peripheral of the scene in front of him. From the motion of action, direction of clawmarks and placement of debris, Geralt deduced that something had intelligently broken into the man’s home with a lock pick. Things immediately turned violent, a struggle and a chase through the house. The man was wounded, and the creature crashed through the window with him. The grass showed signs of being flattened, perhaps from a body being dragged. 

“What's the verdict, Holmes?” Jaskier asked. 

“Tentatively going to assume it’s one of the higher grades of vampires,” Geralt responded, “considering it broke into the home in a more... civilized manner than any of the lower grades are capable of.” He crouched down to inspect the ground more closely, running his hand through the grass. His sharp eyes picked up some dried remnants of blood splattered here and there. He stood back up and slowly began to follow the trail. It led through the yard, where he could see subtle divots in the grass where the man was dragged. Not disturbed enough to portray a struggle, perhaps the victim was unconscious. He frowned when the trail stopped cold at the edge of the road, no sign of blood, tire skid marks in place. Strange. Had it put the man in a car, perhaps? That further solidified his theory that this was a higher grade of vampire. Made it a hell of a lot harder to figure out the next course of action, though. 

Jaskier tapped his foot, watching Geralt stare at the pavement, getting impatient. He wished he could hear what was going on in that handsome head of his. He also wished he knew what ‘higher’ and ‘lower’ grades of vampires meant exactly. He made a mental note to text Raully later, perhaps get him to take pictures of a book on vampires, since he doubted Geralt would be forthcoming. “Well?” He finally asked. 

Geralt glanced up at him briefly before shrugging and starting back towards his motorcycle. “Trail’s gone cold. Gonna have to think of another way to locate the creature.” 

“There must have been more incidents.” Jaskier said, following the Witcher. “I mean, unless he had some kind of garlic fetish; which like, mood; he was clearly expecting a visit from a vampire. Perhaps others have gone missing recently in the same way? Or someone saw something prior?” 

“Fair assumption.” Geralt reached his motorcycle, throwing a leg over it and sitting down. “There’s a problem with that, though. I haven’t spotted any signs that people of the Valley live here aside our client, and this town seems... wary. I doubt anyone will be forthcoming with the information we’re looking for.” 

“We can try the local pub later.” Jaskier suggested, straddling his own bike. “Now that I’ve actually got some money, I’ll bet I can find a fellow to buy some drinks for. You’d be surprised what you can wring out of a person with a little alcohol and eyelash batting.” 

“Enough to blackmail a radio host into playing your awful song?” 

“Oh darling, you don’t know the half of it.” Jaskier grinned, turning the key in the ignition. “At any rate, we have several hours until peak bar time, best we find a place to settle for now.” 

“Saw a few decent spots to camp outside of town.” 

“And I saw a bed and breakfast. I'll treat you this time, considering my ‘awful song’ has lined my pockets substantially.” 

Geralt winced. B&Bs in small towns were always so awkward. Expected you to actually interact with them. “Fine, but you can do the talking.” He started up his own ignition, loud motor roaring to life and drowning out any further potential conversation. 

Jaskier tilted his head, and thought on that as the pair started off out the driveway. He hadn’t considered it too closely before, but he supposed it was staring him right in the face; Geralt was rather introverted, wasn’t he? Didn’t care to talk much, avoided people, seemed quite happy alone. Maybe he was uncomfortable in social situations. In all honesty, this revelation formed a brightening spark in Jaskier’s mind. That was how he could be more helpful to Geralt! He wouldn’t at all mind doing anything the man needed that involved social interaction, talking was something he enjoyed doing. Hell, he could probably do a better job getting anywhere with people than the Witcher had his entire life. 

This was something he was happy to do, if it meant Geralt’s job would be a little easier. 

It wasn’t a grand place by any means, but the B&B was quaint, and large enough to house at least five separate customers, from the looks of it. It was a tad run-down and old fashioned, as places like this tended to be; warm in the lobby, with no air conditioning beyond an old, ratting fan in the corner. ‘Preservation’ typically seemed to mean keeping the hideous wallpaper and carpet combinations despite the peeling and stains. Generally, Geralt preferred staying in places with less history to them. So many smells seeped into the woodwork and fabrics of old places like this, and it was harder to relax with so much olfactory noise. Still, with how often he finds himself sleeping on the ground, he’ll usually take a bed where he can. 

Jaskier strode up to the old, wooden desk, and rang the service bell. The room was vacant, which wasn’t too surprising. Geralt doubted they saw a lot of people coming through, and manning the desk at all hours wasn’t overly reasonable. After a short while of waiting, with Jaskier restlessly tapping his fingers on the surface of the desk, a stout, middle-aged woman finally emerged from the back room. 

“Afternoon, boys!” She said with a radiant smile, her blonde curls floating about her head like a halo. “What can I do for you?” 

Jaskier beamed back with an equally cheerful expression, “It is a lovely afternoon indeed, my good lady.” He pressed his hands together, “We were hoping for a room in your _darling_ establishment; at least one night, but regretfully I am uncertain precisely how many further.” 

The woman laughed and started typing something into the digital tablet that sat on a stand behind the desk; the one and only semblance of modern times in the room. “Well, aren’t you just a little charmer?” She glanced back at Geralt skulking closer to the entrance. “Will that be a King suite or...?” 

That made Geralt’s head whip up. “ _Two_ beds.” He spit out before Jaskier could get up to any shenanigans. “Don’t care what size.” 

“ _Oh_.” The woman sighed a little through her smile, as though disappointed. Evidently, she thought they’d make an adorable couple. “Well, honey, I’ve got an open room with two Queens, if that’s what you’re looking for?” 

“Sounds perfect.” Jaskier smiled charmingly, barely resisting the urge to turn that into an innuendo.

After they’d taken care of the booking and the woman, who introduced herself as Mary, explained how it worked around here and when they could expect breakfast in the dining room, Geralt followed Jaskier up the stairs. 

“Surprised you didn’t ask for two rooms, considering you’re a rich man and all now.” Geralt grumbled. Not that he was actually surprised, given that Jaskier wasn't one for personal space. 

Jaskier was silent for longer than usual, and Geralt glanced at him questioningly. Eventually, Jaskier spoke up, “Well, you know. It wouldn’t exactly be reasonable. How would we collaborate on the case? And besides, I’ve gotten so used to your awful snoring, I’m not certain I could sleep without the white noise anymore.” Geralt got the impression that the smaller man was saying these things as excuses to himself, but he didn’t bother calling him out on it. 

They finally reached their room, and Jaskier unlocked it before pushing the door open, stepping back and gesturing inside. “Dashing heroes first!” 

Geralt rolled his eyes and brushed past him to head into the room. 

Jaskier was about to follow, when suddenly something caught his eye. He stopped, glancing down the hallway. At the end, a young girl of perhaps 5 or 6 years stood staring at him curiously. She had curly blonde hair, and a cherubic face that reminded him of the woman at the front desk. Her daughter, perhaps? Jaskier gave a little wave, a warm smile on his face, “Hello, darling.” 

The girl gave him a shy little wave and smile back before turning and scurrying back down the hall, out of sight. Jaskier shrugged and turned to head into the room, closing the door behind him. 

“You’re not just going to get drunk and go home with someone again, are you?” Geralt grumbled. 

The pair were walking side-by-side down the street, in the direction of the bar they’d driven by earlier. The sun had disappeared below the horizon, leaving the sky a darkening purple. The air was already beginning to cool, the heat of the day dissipating. 

Geralt was wearing his usual unimaginative getup of black jeans, dark gray shirt, black leather jacket, and his shades. A monochrome shadow contrasting Jaskier’s getup of gray pants practically painted on, obnoxious shirt covered in yellow dandelions that hugged his frame and cut short just above his hips, exposing just enough skin and hip bone to tease. 

“I could get drunk and go home with you instead.” Jaskier responded with a smirk. 

“Minus the suggestive tone, that’s the whole point.” 

“Aha! So you admit it, you want me here.” 

“Not in the least,” Geralt snorted, “but if you gather information for the hunt and are too busy shagging to relay it to me, it defeats the entire purpose of this escapade.” 

“ _Escapade_.” Jaskier laughed, opening the door to the bar. “Darling, we’re just getting a drink.” He winked at the man before heading inside. Geralt groaned as he followed. That statement had implications that the man was absolutely up to no good. 

The bar wasn’t exactly packed, but it was well-populated, considering the peak hour. Some of the patrons glanced at them warily, especially at Geralt. The rest minded their own business, or were already too drunk to be overly aware of their surroundings. The Witcher and his companion headed up to the bar, each taking a seat at the stools. Jaskier slapped down his card, “On me. Just don’t go mad,” he glanced up at Geralt pointedly, “I think you’re probably too heavy for me to drag out of here.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. 

After they’d ordered their drinks, they sat in silence as Jaskier surveyed the room nonchalantly. He’d spotted a few people he thought he might try his luck with, a few men and women that had given him an interested once-over. He could tell the difference between the looks of curiosity and the looks of lust. He was good at spotting potential, at reading eyes and body language from afar. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt grumbled into his beer. Not that he really cared, he just thought the man would be running around interviewing people, and he didn’t want to stay here all night. 

Jaskier glanced up from sipping his martini, pulled out of his searching trance for a moment. “Selecting my next victim.” He waved the bartender over. “Might I get another one of these, and a whiskey on the rocks, my good man?” 

“It’s your liver.” The man shrugged and went to start pouring the drinks. 

When he’d received his order, Jaskier took a drink in each hand and slid off the stool. “You just sit tight and watch a master at work.” He said to Geralt with a wink, and then turned and headed away. 

Geralt watched with mild curiosity as Jaskier sauntered over to where a fit-looking man was sitting alone at a tall, 2-person table. He couldn’t really hear what was being said at this distance and with all the noise of the bar, but he assumed it was some form of sweet-talking as he handed the man, who had the complexion of a person already several drinks in, the glass of whiskey and sat down opposite, body language slinky and seductive. Geralt rolled his eyes and turned back towards the bar. The bartender was standing in front of him, wiping down a glass, seemingly eyeing where Jaskier had gone to. “...friend of yours?” The man rumbled casually. 

“Coworker.” Geralt responded evenly, face expressionless, unsure what the bartender was thinking. 

“Hm.” The man glanced around, and lowered his voice. “You boys should keep your heads down. They don’t really care for outsiders.” 

“Who’s ‘they’?” 

The bartender was silent for a long moment, and Geralt could smell the sharp tang of anxiety over the musty scents of the bar. He sipped his beer, waiting for the man to get over whatever he was thinking. 

“Listen,” the man’s voice was quiet, Geralt could only really hear it due to his enhanced senses, “you shouldn't stick around here long. You didn’t hear this from me, but it’s... not safe.” 

“For him?” Geralt nodded his head slightly towards Jaskier; his real question silent, but clear. He'd been through enough intolerant small towns in his lifetime.

“For anyone.” The bartender responded pointedly, indicating to Geralt that he meant something entirely different. Did it have something to do with the case? The vampire? He had a strong feeling that it did. 

“I might be able to help.” Geralt said quietly. “I take care of things that make towns unsafe.” 

“You a Fed?” 

“No. I work private.” 

The barkeeper was quiet again, clearly nervous, eyes subtly glancing around the bar as though he was going to get caught. Get caught at what? Who was the man afraid of? 

“I think this might be more than you can chew.” The man practically whispered when he finally got up the nerve. 

“You’d be surprised.” Geralt sipped his beer. “But I can’t help without information.” 

“You don’t understand. It’s-” The man seemed to be reeling back now, as though the fear was getting the better of him. He clamped his mouth shut, blinking for a long moment before glancing at a photo beside the register. A woman, and a little boy. His family, perhaps. “No. I’m sorry. It’s not safe.” With that, he turned and headed away from Geralt, glancing warily around the bar as he went. 

“Hm.” Geralt grunted thoughtfully. A strange interaction, one he wasn’t entirely sure he understood; but it was evident he wouldn’t be getting anything from the bartender. He glanced back at Jaskier, who seemed to be laughing at whatever his new ‘companion’ was saying, probably hamming it up. He hoped he was having better luck gathering information. 

Figuring he wouldn’t be getting any more customer service from the bartender now, Geralt nursed his beer as he thought on the situation for a while. Was the man’s fear related to his case, or something entirely different and irrelevant to Geralt’s line of work? It wasn’t impossible that multiple strange things were afoot here. Although he had never bothered with any detective novels in his lifetime, he did recall a quote he believed was from some Sherlock Holmes tale; it’s a mistake to theorize before one has data. And this exchange had been far too vague to consider it data. 

Rather, he thought on what he knew, for now. He knew the client believed that a vampire was lurking, believed it would attack him. He knew something intelligent and likely humanoid had broken into the client’s home; likely a species of higher vampire that perhaps transformed into its bat form once inside, and attacked the client. The creature dragged the client outside, put him in a vehicle, and drove away. 

As a general rule, vampires only took bodies with them for one thing; to keep them alive as they sucked them dry for as long as possible. Which meant this vampire likely had a den where it was keeping the client, at least for a time, while it fed. If he could track down this den, he could stake it out and kill the beast when it returned, save the client if he was still alive. A far easier plan than trying to catch it in the act, which was akin to finding a moving needle in a haystack. But how he would find this den was another dilemma entirely. 

He was just thinking on how he would go about starting his search for the vampire den when, all of a sudden, he was jolted out of his head by Jaskier practically throwing himself into his lap. 

“Oh, my terrifyingly muscular love interest!” The smaller man said dramatically, far too loud for his proximity to Geralt’s ear. “I have returned to your arms!” 

“What the fuck are you on about?” Geralt snarled, trying to shove Jaskier off him, but he had his arms tight around his neck and the Witcher didn’t want to break them, lest he have to hear about it for the next few weeks. “Get off me.” 

“Now, now, don’t be jealous! I merely enjoy friendly conversation, which is often mistaken for flirting!” 

“C’mon baby.” Came a severely slurred voice, and Geralt glanced up to see the man who Jaskier had been buttering up stumbling in their direction. “Come home with me, I’ll make you *hic* feel real good.” 

“Oh!” Jaskier put his hand to his mouth. “I’m afraid there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, you see I’m with Geralt here!” 

“Pfftt.” The man swayed where he stood before them. “That stiff? You can do better, baby.” 

“I assure you, he is a dream. I think I might marry him!” 

“Please, sun-*hic*-glasses _indoors_? This guy’s a total douche.” He clumsily grabbed at the edge of Jaskier’s shirt. “I’ll be so good to you, sweetheart!” 

Geralt, who had been passively observing the exchange, suddenly felt a sharp heat in his blood at the man’s brazen grabbing. “Hey, fuck off, pal.” He growled. 

That seemed to trigger something in the man, who suddenly stood up taller; getting up in Geralt’s face, “Fuck off yourself, _pal_!” 

Geralt shoved Jaskier off his lap, who went willingly, and stood up. He easily towered over the drunken man, and was nearly twice his bulk; but the man seemed pretty unfazed. The man waved his arms in the air, “You wanna go, buddy? I box, you know! I’m the best *hic* fuckin’ boxer in town!” 

“Nah. You talk big, like a little cat thinking it’s fooling anyone.” Geralt said calmly. “Go home, before you get yourself hurt.” 

The man’s eyes practically went red as he flung himself at Geralt. But Geralt had been ready for him. He easily blocked that clumsy, drunken blow and returned a punch of his own directly to the man’s face, hard enough to send him sprawling backwards onto his ass. Hardly a flea flick to Geralt, but that man was on the ground, holding his face in pain, blood gushing from his nose. 

“I- alright, I need you to leave.” Came a timid voice. Geralt glanced back to see the bartender looking between him and the man on the ground nervously, and most of the other patrons of the bar staring, the whole place gone almost quiet. 

Geralt shrugged, grabbed Jaskier by the arm, and started for the door. He’d nearly finished his beer anyway. 

When they got outside, the night was far more cool, and quiet compared to the stuffy, noisy, warm interior of the bar. A relief, like a splash of cool water. Geralt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Jaskier, however, seemed entirely nonchalant, all things considered, as he pulled up a metal flask that Geralt didn’t remember him possessing before and brought it to his mouth for a sip. 

“What was that about?” Geralt growled as they started off down the street for the B&B. 

“What was what about?” Jaskier asked innocently. 

“Why did you get me involved in your little play?” 

“Ah, well… I didn’t _mean_ it to go that way.” Jaskier, to his credit, looked sheepish. “He was rather, eh… _insistent_ on taking me home; so I thought I’d play the ol’ ‘I’ve already got a boyfriend’ trick, and you look imposing and all, so I thought he’d just leave it alone. But it seems he was a tad more drunk than I thought.” 

Geralt frowned. “You could have just told me he was bothering you.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes, “Oh, please. You’d just leave me to fend for myself and you know it.” 

Geralt didn’t say anything to refute that, but he did think on it to himself. He understood why Jaskier would think that, but he disagreed internally. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d stepped in to protect someone vulnerable against harassment. Just because it wasn’t his job as a Witcher didn’t mean he didn’t have any conscience at all. 

“Anyway, it wasn’t a total loss.” Jaskier spoke up after taking another sip from the flask. “Before he entirely lost his mind to the drink, the man did tell me several interesting things regarding what’s been going on in this town.” 

“Go on, then.” 

“Well, as I so _brilliantly_ hypothesized before, there has indeed been a large number of kidnappings that have occurred in this town over the past year. But that’s not even the crazy part.” Jaskier paused for dramatic effect, and Geralt bit back an annoyed sigh. “Get this; there has also been several horrifying mutilations over the same time period! Throats ripped out, bones chewed up, guts spilled; all by some unidentifiable animal, according to official reports.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow. That was odd. Mutilating victims was more of a lower vampire thing. All were capable of it, but it wasn’t typical behavior. 

“And, because I’m so amazing at this, as I’m sure you’re thinking but far too emotionally stunted to admit; I’ve got us several leads to work with.” Jaskier grinned brightly. “He gave me the names of a few different people who have been affected by the kidnappings and mutilations. Coworkers, mostly. I got a look at his driver's license, so with a little research tonight, I’ll have some addresses for us to look into.” 

“Hm. It’s a start.” Geralt said. He was impressed, in all honesty; but he wasn’t going to admit it. He’d never hear the end of it. 

The pair walked into the night, the streets quiet, the B&B coming up in their view. They were both lost in thought, Jaskier sipping at the flask one last time before stashing it in his back pocket. 

“He said he’s seen a vampire, you know.” Jaskier eventually said with wonder. “He was sort of slurry by the time I asked him about vampires, but I got the gist of it. He said he only got a glimpse, but that it looked like a person; pale, black hair and fangs and red eyes. Real ‘Dracula’, you know. That narrow it down at all?” 

“Not really, all of the higher vampires have human forms.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier frowned. 

“Doesn’t matter, though.” Geralt shrugged. “Knowing the exact species just means I’ll know how to prepare. I still need to locate it’s den, regardless of what it is.” 

“Aye, and how do we do that?” 

“Working on it.” Geralt rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses. “For now, I’m going to get some sleep.” 

The room was warm and stuffy, considering it had no air conditioning. A single ceiling fan that rotated at a speed incapable of throwing a moth off flight pattern, never mind provide any real air flow. Geralt had managed to force one of the rickety old windows open halfway, but it had no screen; and when the mosquitoes darting in had grown tiresome, they decided to close it and deal with the heat. They’d both stripped down to their boxers in an attempt to cool down, and Jaskier’s hair was still wet from his shower, which felt nice against the warmth. While Geralt sat cross-legged on his bed, meditating best he could these days, Jaskier had been happily typing away at his laptop on his own. 

“Ohhh my _god_!” 

Geralt was ripped out of his trance by Jaskier’s shriek, and he glanced over with annoyance. The younger man had his hands on his cheeks in excitement as he stared at his laptop screen. He wasn’t going to ask, but he knew he was going to hear about whatever it was. He sighed preemptively. 

“My song has _covers_!” Jaskier practically squeaked. He flung his head around to look at Geralt, those blue eyes wild. “COVERS, GERALT!” 

“You know what would be better with a cover?” Geralt grumbled. “Your mouth.” 

Jaskier was entirely unaffected by that comment, if he even heard it, as he jumped off his bed and practically threw himself and his laptop onto the end of Geralt’s. “Do you know what kinds of songs get covers? _Viral ones_. I’ve gone _viral_!” 

“Perhaps you should see a doctor.” Geralt scowled. “Get off my bed.” 

“Listen, there’s a metal version!” Jaskier clicked something on his computer and music started blaring out. Growly guitar and harsh vocals. It was indeed Jaskier’s song, but sung by another man in hard metal fashion. It hurt Geralt’s ears, and for a moment he entertained the idea of throwing the laptop across the room. “This is cause to celebrate!” Jaskier rolled onto his back and lifted the metal flask to his lips for a sip. 

“Where did that flask come from, anyway?” Geralt asked. He hadn’t seen it around or smelled it before this night. Mostly, though, he just wanted to get Jaskier off the subject of his music. He’d go on about it all night. 

“Hm? Oh, I stole it from Mr. Handsy.” Jaskier grinned, pulling his laptop back to himself and sitting up. “Doing him a favor, you know! He evidently needed cutting off long prior. Do you want to hear the lo-fi cover?” 

“No, I want to go to sleep.” Geralt flipped the switch on the lamp at his bedside, bathing the room in darkness just illuminated by the moon outside and the glow of the laptop. “You should too.” 

“Oi, you're no fun.” Jaskier rolled his eyes and slid off the bed, padding back over to his own. “Anyway, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep after all this excitement!” 

15 minutes later, Jaskier was passed out and sprawled across his bed, snoring softly. His laptop still open, the light bathing the room in a cold, blue glow. The music was still playing; quietly, but still far too loud for sensitive Witcher ears. Geralt sighed, rolled over and got to his feet and walked over. He gently closed the laptop, cutting off the music and light. 

— 

After a lovely breakfast provided by Mary, the keeper of the B&B, the pair headed out in their endeavor to scrounge up more information. Jaskier had gotten a list of addresses from his internet research last night, and the pair agreed to split the list. As much as Geralt would rather just shove Jaskier in front to do all the talking, he had to agree they’d get through it faster this way. 

It had been a long time since Geralt had to run around interviewing people for the sake of a hunt. Frankly, he’d rather track dung piles through a mountain range than play the game of trust and word roundabout over and over again. In an ideal world, he would walk up to a potential witness and ask, ‘hey, you seen a vampire?’, get the information he needed and be done with it. But this was not an ideal world for a simple-tongued, straightforward Witcher. And so he was stuck with a role he hadn’t the capacity to play. 

Jaskier suggested they pretend to be private detectives, hired by one of the families affected by the kidnappings. When he tried this tactic out with the first person he spoke to, Geralt had to admit, it was a far smoother way to get the conversation started than hinting that there were monsters around. Why hadn’t he done this before? 

The sun was starting to dip in the sky by the time Geralt wandered back into the room at the B&B. He wasn’t overly surprised to find Jaskier already inside, considering his investigative conversations probably went a lot more smoothly; but he did raise an eyebrow when I realized the man was sitting cross-legged at the center of countless papers strewn around him. 

Jaskier glanced up, a pen in his mouth, as Geralt closed the door behind him. “Ah, Geralt! Just in time, I’ve some ideas to bounce!” 

“The hell is all this?” Geralt rumbled, gesturing to the papers, heading over to his bag to search for a change of clothes. The day had been hot and sweaty, and he looked forward to scrubbing the salt from his skin in a warm shower. 

“Oh! Well, I had Raully send some pictures of pages from his books on vampires this morning so I could do a bit of studying, and I got done with the interviews early, so I dropped by the library to print them out.” Jaskier rambled, reaching down to shift a piece of paper closer to another. Mixed in with the printed scans were notebook pages with silly patterns on them and writing, perhaps notes from the interviews. “Did you know there’s a potion called Black Blood that turns your blood to poison for a vam-? Ah, well, of course you know that. Anyway, did you get anyone to talk?” 

Geralt stifled a groan. How did one little person talk so much? “Many of them wouldn’t talk to me.” He said, wandering over to his bed to sit down, tossing the change of clothes on it. “But a couple of them said they saw a massive creature that looked like a gargoyle.” 

“Aye, as did the ones I spoke to.” Jaskier nodded. “So that rules out Alps and Mula.” 

“None of them reported any singing when I asked.” Geralt added. “Doesn’t officially rule out a Bruxa, but makes it less likely.” 

“And you said it has to be in the higher vampire category, since the kidnappings seem intelligent?” 

“It lockpicked a house, I can’t see a lesser vampire being capable of that.” 

“So that just leaves Katakan, Nosferat, and Higher Vampire.” Jaskier pointed at the three pages in front of him, seemingly already having reached this conclusion long before Geralt confirmed it. Rather impressive, his comprehension of the varieties of vampires after only a few hours of research. Not that the Witcher would ever tell him so. 

“Best hope it isn’t a Higher Vampire.” Geralt grabbed his clothes again and stood up, heading for the bathroom. “That could get messy.” 

“Right... they can only be killed by another Higher Vampire, eh?” Jaskier chewed on the pen. “We could always put its’ head in a box and drive it to the next town.” 

“That’s generally the plan.” Geralt agreed. Just as he was about to walk into the bathroom, conversation concluded, he was halted by a sudden knock to the room door. He glanced over at Jaskier, “Did you order room service?” 

Jaskier looked at the door in as much surprise as Geralt. “I don’t think Mary even does room service.” He struggled to his feet and padded over to the door. Before he could reach out to open it, however, he was startled by Geralt’s hand grabbing his wrist. He looked up in surprise, but the Witcher just pointed at the silver dagger glinting in his other hand as he shoved the smaller man away. 

Geralt stood to the side of the door, holding his dagger in a way that kept it hidden, but at the ready. He reached out and turned the door handle, opening it just a crack, just enough to be heard through it. “Yes?” 

“One large meat lovers’ pizza?” Came a voice from behind the door. 

Geralt glanced back at Jaskier, eyebrow raised. 

Jaskier frowned. “I didn’t order pizza.” 

“Wrong room.” Geralt grunted. 

“You’re the only tenant in here.” 

Geralt furrowed his brows, and opened the door a bit more to take a peek, blade at the ready in case the person behind it took the opportunity to pounce. He relaxed a bit when he realized it was just a scrawny teenage boy in a delivery uniform, holding a box billowing with the smell of hot pizza. Geralt couldn’t see, hear nor smell anyone else. The boy was alone, and seemed relaxed. He opened the door wider, and the kid stepped inside, bringing the box over to the table inside the room. 

“Who put in the order?” Jaskier asked quizzically, tracking the kid’s movements with his head tilted to the side. 

The pizza boy glanced around, as though trying to determine whether they were alone, putting Geralt on edge again. His voice was low when he answered, “A mutual friend, you spoke last night.” 

Geralt blinked with surprise. The only person he’d talked to was the bartender. Why was the bartender sending him a pizza? 

“Close the door.” The kid said quietly, eyes shifting. “Wouldn’t want the pizza catching the draft.” 

“Geralt?” Jaskier looked back at him with wide eyes, confusion plastered over his face. Geralt could smell his anxiety. 

Ignoring him, Geralt walked over and closed the door. “What’s this about?” He asked when he turned back. 

“Our mutual friend couldn’t put his loved ones in danger.” The teen clasped his hands behind him. “I don’t have ties to worry about like they do.” 

Well, Geralt supposed that confirmed it was the bartender. “Is this about what’s been happening in town?” 

“I hear whispers that you’ve been asking around, claiming you can help. Can you?” 

“Taking care of this sort of thing is what I do.” 

“Well, if you’re smart, you’ll leave town and forget about any of this.” The kid sighed and walked over to the chair at the table, sitting down. He pulled his baseball hat off and ran a hand through his sweaty, blonde hair. “But honestly, we could use a little dumb right now.” 

Geralt’s mouth quirked a bit, and he walked over and sat down at the foot of his own bed, across from the chair. “What’s your name?” 

“Tim.” 

“I assure you that I can help, Tim. What can you tell me?” 

“Well, to get straight to the point,” Tim leaned back, crossing his arms, “this town is under the control of a vampire cult, and they’re murdering people to maintain that control.” 

Geralt and Jaskier both stared at the boy in surprise, silent for a long moment while they processed this. 

“That’s... not at all what I was expecting to hear, if I’m being quite honest.” Jaskier cleared his throat. 

“What do you mean by ‘control’?” Geralt asked. 

“I mean heavy fines, behavior and language regulations, discrimination, curfews and the like.” Tim shrugged. “All in the name of lining the pockets of the local government.” 

Geralt frowned. “So the local government is in on it?” 

“I know for a fact that the mayor is, but as for the rest of them, they’re pretty secretive about it.” Tim sighed. “Everyone’s scared stiff. Rightly so, anyone who speaks out against the local government gets brutally murdered or kidnapped. Hell, anyone spits funny in this town might get it.” 

“That explains the strange behavior and wariness.” Geralt rubbed his chin. “Do you know if there are multiple vampires in this cult, or just the one?” 

“Rumor has it, they’re all vampires. Or, most of them?” 

“That would explain why a couple of people I spoke to timed their relatives’ kidnappings around the same frame.” Jaskier cut in, chewing his thumbnail thoughtfully. 

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Geralt asked. 

Tim shook his head. “That’s about it. No one’s sure what happens to the people who get kidnapped, if they’re getting held somewhere, or... I don’t know. But that’s all, really. I’m not sure if any of it helps you.” He glanced at the door, swallowing. “Just... you didn’t hear any of this from me, of course. They have eyes and ears everywhere. People who bought into the cult. I don’t know who to trust.” 

“Don’t worry about it. You’re just here delivering our pizza.” Geralt nodded. 

The teen nodded back with relief, getting to his feet. “I’d better get back before anyone gets suspicious.” He started for the door, then paused, glancing back. “You, uh... tip your delivery guys, yeah?” 

Freshly showered, Geralt sat on his bed, eating a third slice of pizza, taking care not to let the loaded toppings drop onto the sheets. “That did explain the behavior of the bartender, and why so many people I tried to interview today refused to talk to me.” 

“A _vampire cult_!” Jaskier lay back on his own bed, flailing his arms dramatically at the idea. “How cool is this? We’re taking down a whole evil cult! What an adventure. I have so many song ideas!” 

“Perhaps.” Geralt swallowed a bite. “I’m wary regarding the idea of entire nest of them.” 

“What, is it too much for you?” 

“Depends. If this is a nest of Higher Vampires, I don’t stand a chance. I barely stand a chance against a solo one.” 

Jaskier sat up, glancing over at Geralt. “Well, what do you plan to do, then?” 

“Find their nest, see for myself what sort of vampire this is. If these are Higher Vampires, I’ll inform law enforcement where the nest is. Even if they can’t kill them, it’ll scatter them and save the town.” 

“Oh! Speaking of the nest,” Jaskier scrambled off the bed and padded over to his pile of papers, bending down to pick one of the notes. “I might be able to help you find it.” 

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but stayed expectantly silent. 

“So, a couple of the people I spoke to today mentioned they saw a suspicious dark blue van around the time of the kidnappings, and they gave me the license plate number. The same one, both times.” Jaskier handed the paper to the Witcher, excited glint in his eyes. “I know Tim said the mayor is definitely one of them, and we could go stake him out. But perhaps if we locate the van, it could lead us to the nest directly.” 

Geralt took the paper and glanced over it. “I might be able to convince the station to run it for me. If not, there’s someone I might be able to call.” 

“Oh? The Witcher has connections?” 

Rolling his eyes, Geralt folded the paper and shoved it in his wallet, tossing it back on the side table. “Are you going to have any of this?” He asked, gesturing at the remaining slices of pizza, mostly to get away from a topic he knew Jaskier would push at until he’d ripped every piece of his backstory from his bones; or, more likely, became insufferably grumpy when Geralt didn’t give him the answers he wanted. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast.” 

“Hm? Oh, right.” Jaskier blinked, as though just remembering himself. He grabbed a slice of pizza from the box before retreating back to his bed. “You’d know more than I would I suppose, but is it not strange to find multiple vampires working together? Raully’s books say most of them are solitary.” 

“It is odd, yes.” Geralt chewed thoughtfully. “But not surprising. It is difficult for monsters to find prey these days, it makes sense that the more intelligent ones would adapt their methods.” 

“Monster evolution in the modern world.” Jaskier lay back on his bed, pizza dangling from his fingers. “That could be an interesting book. Perhaps I’ll become a monster scientist and write it. A... monstrologist. Professor Pankratz, Monstrology.” 

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. 

— 

It’s usually at this point in the story, when the heroes have a plan and think they’ve got everything all figured out, that a plot twist entirely unravels the plan and throws the heroes back to square one. While generally I am a fan of subverting expectation, there are just some things in this world better off left as simple as they are. Like chocolate chip cookies. 

It was nearing dusk the following night by the time Jaskier realized something was wrong. Geralt had left the room early that morning, heading to the station to hopefully uncover more information regarding the van’s license plate. Although Jaskier begged to tag along, Geralt insisted it was a delicate situation and best done alone. Jaskier had wisely conceded to Geralt’s superior experience, but only after he’d managed to untie the rope that the Witcher had used to bind his wrist to the bathroom doorknob, by the time Geralt was long gone. 

After he’d freed himself, Jaskier spent the morning reading more of the scanned pages of a monster compendium that Raully had so generously sent in exchange for a few days of blessed radio silence. After that became boring, he went out and got coffee at the café down the street, bringing a second one back for Mary as thanks for that morning’s lovely breakfast, and receiving a pinch on the cheek for being such a thoughtful little darling. 

The rest of the day was spent answering fan tweets, writing song lyrics, and reading postings on the bounty board. 

It was while reading one potential client’s problem that sounded quite a bit more like a cheating spouse than a doppler problem that Jaskier suddenly realized, “Hm, Geralt has been gone quite a while.” 

He slid over to the window and glanced out of it. His little monster of a bike was still parked where he’d left it in the lot, but Roach was no where to be found. Had Geralt discovered the location of the lair and gone to take care of it already? 

But Jaskier glanced back into the room, and saw that Geralt’s bags with all his weapons and potions were still on his bed. He’d opted not to take them with him to the station, considering being armed to the teeth anywhere near the police didn’t sound like a particularly wise idea. Yet, this meant Geralt was not hunting. He would never hunt without his gear. 

“Don’t suppose you’ve gone out and found yourself a ladyfriend for the night, eh old boy?” Jaskier addressed Geralt’s bags. The Witcher hadn’t so much as glanced at anyone in their time traveling together, but then it wasn’t like they’d known each other long. There was no evidence that the man wasn’t inclined in any way. Still, Jaskier had a feeling in his gut he couldn’t shake, and a hunch he couldn’t ignore. He went and put on his shoes, grabbed his keys and headed out the door. 

After struggling to start his bike, Jaskier followed his GPS down the small town streets, ignoring the wary looks the scarce residents were giving him. After a short trip, Jaskier found himself coming up on the police parking lot. He craned his neck to look around at the parked vehicles, sparsely populated as it was.

Roach stood, black and gleaming, in a shaded edge section of the lot. Far from where any other cars were likely to graze it, Jaskier knew the man’s habits by now. This meant Geralt never left the headquarters. Could he still be inside? Surely it wouldn’t take all day to run some plates or tell him to sod off? He could have gone off in search on foot, but Geralt never would have left Roach behind like this.

Jaskier was lost in his thoughts when he suddenly spotted it. Dragged out of his head in an instant, his blood ran cold. 

The van. The blue van with the license plate matching the paper. Parked inconspicuously in the corner. Seemingly vacant. 

Jaskier let out a long sigh. “Wow, corrupt police, what a fucking shocker.” He grumbled sarcastically. It made sense, though. The only way a cult could truly have such a level of control over the town as this would be to have the local law enforcement on its side. Why hadn’t they thought of it before? Or asked the pizza delivery kid if he suspected anyone else? 

When he’d gotten back to the B&B, Jaskier paced the floor anxiously, wracking his brain. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?” He asked himself. “They’ve got Geralt, the actually capable one between the two of us, what’s little ol’ me supposed to do about it? I don't even know where they're keeping him. Oh, Jaskier, you've really got yourself over your head this time.” 

Suddenly, a small creak sounded out from behind. 

Jaskier whirled around, holding up one of Geralt’s daggers defensively, eyes wild and shoulders tense. He blinked for several moments before realizing the figure that stood in the open door was the little blonde girl from the other day. Gazing at him curiously.

“Oh, erm, hello there little one.” Jaskier swallowed down his fright, glancing at the dagger before hurriedly placing it back on the bed. “Sorry, I suppose I forgot to close the door, was I being too loud?” 

“Has your friend been taken by the vampires too?” She asked quietly, tilting her cherubic little head. She nervously twisted her fingers in front of her as she spoke. “The big one with the white hair?” 

Jaskier blinked in surprise, “I… yes, I think he has.” After a moment of collecting himself, he sat down on the bed, facing the girl. “Do you know someone who was taken by the vampires as well?” 

The little girl nodded quickly. “My best friend Jane’s dad, she said they took him because he wanted to be mayor.” 

“Oh, that’s so awful!” Jaskier frowned sympathetically, “Your friend must be terribly frightened. What’s your name, by the way?” 

“Alice, I’m 5.” She said shyly. 

“Well, Alice, the big man with the white hair?” He made a show of looking around before leaning in and cupping a hand over his mouth. “He’s a _vampire hunter_!” 

Alice gasped, stepping closer, blue eyes wide. “Is he going to get rid of the vampires and bring Jane’s daddy back?” 

“I certainly hope so, darling.” Jaskier rested his chin on his fist. “But he can’t get rid of the vampires without his anti-vampire tools, and it seems he’s forgotten to take them with him. I need to find him and bring them to him. Do you have any idea where the vampires are, Alice?” 

Alice tapped her cheek with his finger thoughtfully. “No, but my brother might!” 

“Your brother?” 

“Yeah, my big brother. He’s really mean. He hurts me sometimes, throws things at me.” Her little face scrunched wistfully, and it took everything in Jaskier’s power not to allow the boiling blood in his veins to show in his face. How could anyone hurt such a little angel? “He knows the vampires. But he told me if I tell anyone he’ll have his vampire friends eat me.” She suddenly looked up at Jaskier, frightened. “Are the vampires going to eat me now because I told you?” 

Jaskier reached out and planted a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Of course not, darling! It will be our little secret. Now, what is your brother’s name, and where can I find him?” 

“He works at the pizza place down the street!” Alice said, “His name is Tim!” 

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. 

_Tim_. The _pizza boy_. 

“Ohh that little mother-” Jaskier caught himself, glancing down at the little girl, “-lover. Do you know if he’s working today, Alice?” 

“Mhm!” 

“Oh, wonderful.” Jaskier stood up, “Well, I’m just going to go have a little talk with your brother, and we’ll have this whole vampire problem dealt with in no time. Is your mother Mary? The owner here?” 

“Yeah! I live here too!” 

“How grand! Now darling, I want you to go find your mother, alright? And stay with her, don’t go running off now. Perhaps you can help her make some more of those delicious lavender cupcakes?” 

“Okay! I’ll protect my mom from the vampires!” 

“What a brave girl!” Jaskier clasped his hands proudly. “Perhaps you’ll be a vampire hunter one day as well.” 

The little girl beamed at that before turning and running down the hall. Jaskier listened to her little footsteps stop down the stairs before he turned back to Geralt’s bags. He thought hard on what he was going to do once he had discerned Geralt’s location, peeling back the zipper on the bag to see if it held any ideas. It was one thing to find Geralt, but another thing entirely to sneak into a nest of vampires to reach him. He wracked his brain as he thought on all he had learned in his research of vampires thus far, and suddenly a spark formed in his mind. 

It was terribly stupid, a Hail Mary really. He rummaged through Geralt’s bags until he found the items he was searching for. Items that were most likely going to get him killed. 

“Right, then. Time to give little Timmy a visit.” 

“Hey Tim, you scrub the toaster grate yet?” 

Tim scowled, pausing his mopping. “Not _yet_ , Jared.” He spat venomously. 

“It’s _sir_ , to you.” Jared folded his arms, “And watch your tone.” 

Tim didn’t say anything to that, biting back his angry retort. The young man was only two years older than him, but apparently being a freshman in college made him so much better than everyone else, and gave him the authority to boss around the other seasonal hires. Tim had hated him since high school. 

But he wouldn’t have to deal with him for long, now. He had done his duty, and done it well. The promised day was upon him soon. His induction, his transformation. Soon, he would have the strength to tear all of his enemies to pieces- 

“Hey _sir_ Jared,” The girl at the register smirked back at him, “Your pizza’s burning!” 

“Oh shit!” Jared paled and dashed off to the ovens. 

Tim glanced at the girl, giving her his most sincere smile, “Thanks, Allison.” 

“You just gotta stick up for yourself now and then,” Allison said kindly. “He’s not so tough.” 

“Maybe not to you.” Tim sighed. He paused in his mopping, leaning against it. “By the way, are you going to that drive-in thing this weekend?” 

“Yeah, totally!” 

“I’ll have my mom’s car, would- uh, would you wanna go with-?” 

“Oh, I was actually going with Stephen.” Allison cut him off apologetically. “He’s got that cool old convertible now, have you seen it?” 

Tim felt himself deflate, hope replaced by fire in his stomach yet again. “Yeah, I’ve seen cooler.” He ground out through gritted teeth. 

Allison just laughed at that, “In this little town? Maybe in magazines.” The phone started ringing, and she grabbed it and answered. As she took down the customer’s order, she frowned at the pad of paper she was writing on. After hanging up the phone, she turned back to Tim, “Hey, can you see if there’s any more notepads in the back? I’m on my last page.” 

“Yeah, sure.” Tim said in a monotone, turning and heading for the back. His face was dark as he scowled. He was so tired of Allison avoiding or rejecting every move he made. Stephen was a tool, Tim would treat her so much better, he would show her the world, couldn’t she see that? The rage boiled in his stomach as he pushed the door to the back room open, heading inside, the door swinging shut behind him. Just wait, his promised time would be soon. All in this town would respect him and fear him, the girls would crave him and his power, Allison would be his-

“Lady problems?” 

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin as he whirled around. Jaskier stood leaning against one of the shelves, arms folded, shrouded in shadow. He had an even look on his face, blue eyes studying and focused.

“You?” Tim said, puzzled. "What are you doing back here?"

“You know, I’m pretty good with women,” Jaskier noted, “I could give you a few pointers.” 

Tim looked around before lowering his voice, “Shouldn’t you be out hunting vampires?” 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.” 

“Then why are you here?” The teen backed up a step. “I already told you everything I know.” 

“You’re a pretty good actor, Timmy boy.” Jaskier clapped his hands. “I was in drama club, you know, and still you got me good. Bravo, really.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Tim backed up further, swallowing nervously. “I risked a lot, talking to you guys!” 

“Was the setup your idea, or your little vampire pals?” Jaskier peeled away from the shelves, taking a step forward. “Did you have a trap set for him at the mayor’s house? Good play, really. Who would suspect a pizza boy? Of course, none of it mattered in the end, he stumbled right into the hands of your other acolytes.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Tim spat, turning to escape. “Leave me alone, or I’ll-” 

“Yeah, no, you won’t.” Jaskier pulled out Geralt’s pistol, glinting in the dim backroom light. “You’re not going anywhere, kiddo.” 

“J-jesus!” Tim froze in place, his eyes bugging out at the sight of the weapon.

The gun wasn’t loaded or anything. Jaskier hadn’t the slightest idea how to load or shoot, only ever been on the business end of the barrel. But hey, the kid didn’t need to know that. He’d used prop guns in enough plays to know how to sell it. “Back away from the door.” He ordered. He didn’t feel too bad about scaring the shit out of this kid, considering what sweet little Alice told him. 

“A-alright, alright!” Tim stammered, hands raised, side-stepping deeper into the back room, away from the door. 

“Now, you can make this real easy on yourself,” Jaskier flicked the gun, making Tim flinch, “or you can make it hard. I don’t really care either way, but the latter’s more fun.” He put on a cold gaze, an expression of nonchalance. This kid didn’t know anything about him, he could be a cold-blooded vampire hunter and killed dozens of men for all he knew. He fully intended to sell that idea. “I know you know where the vampire’s lair is, where they’re holding my friend. You tell me everything I need to know, and you can go without a scratch.” 

Tim was quaking, “E-even if I wanted to, they’ll kill me if I tell you!” 

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.” Jaskier strode forward, pressing the gun to the boy’s chin. “It’s quite simple.” 

“Fuck, alright! _God_!” Tim cried out. “They’re keeping the bloodbags in the old abandoned mill building on South Willow!” 

“There, see?” Jaskier gave him a sweet smile. “That wasn’t so hard.” 

“C-can I go now?” 

“Not just yet.” Jaskier tilted his head, coming closer, until he could feel the boy’s rapid breath. “Tell me _everything_.” 

The old mill building was run down and dark, off in a secluded, abandoned part of town. The moon was nearly full, bathing the lampless street in a dull white glow. Some of the windows of the mill building were shattered, glinting in the moonlight. Jaskier’s shoes crunched on the broken shards as he made his way to the eastern entrance. 

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He was fatigued, his body felt cold and hot at the same time, his bones and muscles crying out as though they would burst from his skin at any moment. He felt nauseous, but he had to press on. There was no time for emptying his rather already empty stomach contents right now. He pushed the splintered, wooden door open, taking the loud screech of the rusted hinges without a flinch. He stepped into the building, flicking on his flashlight, flooding the hall with bright light. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked, scuffing against fallen bricks now and then. 

He turned down several halls with the confidence of a regular, before finally reaching a set of iron-railed stairs heading down into the belly of the building. He turned with the stairs, spiraling, descending down and down until finally he reached the stone-cobbled floor of the basement. The crackling of multiple fires, whispers and laughs cut into the cold darkness.

“Hello, lads.” 

A dozen heads whipped up, voices gone silent, echoing in the firelit room. Two dozen blood-red eyes fixed on Jaskier, who gazed back unconcernedly. They all stood up from their seats around the three round tables, covered in papers and food. They spread out, shadows dancing in the firelight, analyzing his presence. 

One of them snarled, baring his teeth, sharp fangs glinting in the firelight, “Did you take a wrong turn, boy?” 

“He’s looking rather pale, perhaps he’s another one of those vampire fanatics?” 

“Hold on a second.” Another one squinted at him. “Is that the boy who was with the white-haired one?” 

“Speaking of, how is ol’ Geralt?” Jaskier asked, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice. “I dearly hope he’s in decent condition, for your sakes. I’ve invested quite a bit in the man, you know.” 

A cacophony of chuckles erupted from the pale faces, cloaked forms slinking around him. 

“Foolish child, a lamb stumbled into the den of wolves.” One cackled. 

“We will bleed you like a pig and have ourselves a little early feast, I think.” 

“What, with your little plastic fangs?” Jaskier sneered. 

Several of them looked surprised, glancing at each other, stopping in their tracks. 

“Your contact’s slipped a bit, by the way.” Jaskier nodded to one of them, the red iris eclipsing the brown underneath. “You know, you’re lucky there’s no Valley presence in this town. Nothing quite like a cliché Dracula getup to distinguish the frauds from the Nosferats.” 

A wide-shouldered man strode forward, glaring. His shining black wig was slipping to the side a bit. “Real vampires or not, you’re still outnumbered. I’d wipe that cocky smile from your pasty face, if I were you.” 

“Mm, yes and no.” Jaskier flipped the gun out of his pocket, training it on the man, stopping him in his tracks. All of them backed up a bit, startled. “It was pretty clever, I must say. Going about in your little Halloween costumes, frightening people. Who wears the bat suit, do you take turns? I assume you've raided the local hospital's blood stores for the admittedly gruesome kidnapping displays.” 

“You think you’ve got it all figured out, eh?” One of them sneered, although backing up warily from the pistol as it shifted towards him. “Playing Sherlock? How did we do the maulings then, eh? Won’t you share with the class?” 

“Listen, fellas,” Jaskier said wearily, taking all of his strength not to lean over and rest his weight, “as much as I’d love to discuss the fineries of your little Twilight LARPing campaign, I really must locate my friend.” 

“You’re not listening, boy.” Several of them chuckled. “You ought to listen, _real_ _carefully_.” 

Jaskier hesitated for a moment, considering the man’s choice of words. The moments of silence were cut through with a strange scratching sound, like nails on stone, cutting through the darkness above his head. Jaskier stared at the man for a long moment before swallowing and turning his flashlight up at the ceiling. 

Red, fiery orbs glinted back at him, as the hideous, twisted face of a living gargoyle stared back, long claws clinging to the stone. The lips peeled back to reveal rows of dripping fangs, glinting in the torchlight. 

“Oh.” Jaskier blinked. “Well, that’s not a costume.” 

The creature screamed and let go of the ceiling. 

Jaskier wasted no time, adrenaline filling his veins and chasing away the tired ache. With a terrified shout he launched forward in a run. The false vampires laughed all around him as they scrambled to get out of the way, fleeing for the staircase in a flood. Jaskier didn’t care anymore, entirely focused on the more pressing matter now. The creature shrieked as it chased after him, claws scraping at the floor as it scrambled on the slippery stone. God, he wished that gun was loaded after all. 

Jaskier ran, shoes splashing in the shallow puddles of runoff that collected in the cracks of the stone floor. The hall was a blur as he sped, eyes trained on the open doorway ahead, hints of machinery and firelight evident beyond it. If he could just make it through in time, he could close the door behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, and his legs carried him as fast as they could go. He ran, he ran like hell, the hellish creature crying out behind him and getting closer with every heartbeat. The doorway was so close, so close, so close- 

Suddenly, Jaskier’s shoe slipped, and he went crashing to the floor with a cry. 

He hadn’t a moment to right himself when suddenly the monster was upon him, snarling in his ears and clawing at his body, tearing into his clothes and his flesh. He screamed, pain and terror and panic bursting out from him. Flashbacks of the werewolf attack, of his torn-open chest, of a brush so close to death he could taste the cold of it. The beast pinned him to the floor, like the werewolf before it, peeling back its outer lips to expose the gums and shining layers of razor-sharp teeth. 

The beast launched its face downward, sinking those teeth into the soft tissue at the base of his neck, throbbing with blood. 

His gurgling cry cut short in his throat. 

Then the beast stopped. 

Jaskier felt the teeth slide back out of his flesh in an instant, as the beast tore away from him. It screamed, this time in pain. Jaskier scrambled up into a sitting position, gasping and kicking himself away from the beast as it flailed away from him. Its face was smoking, burning, melting like acid. It fell to the floor and writhed in agony, screaming as it burned from the inside. 

Its final screams fell to whimpers, and then silence. 

The creature lay dead on the floor, melting. 

Jaskier stared, gasping for several long moments. He trembled terribly, like a road vibrating under a massive, rumbling truck. He reached up and pressed a hand to the gushing wound on his neck, blinking down at it. His blood looked so very strange, so very dark. 

Eventually, he managed to shove down the terror, pain and fatigue enough to push himself off the floor, and head for the open door once again. It was slow-going, having to keep pressure on his wound as he went, his legs struggling to respond as they quaked. He made his way through the fire-warmed room of long-dead machinery, heading for the far end, feet scuffing on the stone as he went. 

Geralt looked up in shock, resting his arms on the thick steel bars of the cage. He had heard a ruckus in the adjacent room, muffled by the thick walls, but this was rather the last thing he’d been expecting. 

“ _Jaskier_?” He called out, stunned. 

“Aye, it is he, your savior.” Jaskier responded, voice weak as he stumbled over to the mechanism that controlled the doors of the cage, retrofitted from its original purpose of controlling the power to the machines in the room. He shook terribly from exhaustion, but he managed to reach the podium before needing to collapse over it. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Geralt asked, pushing at the door as he impatiently waited for Jaskier to fiddle with the switches on the terminal. He was rather battered himself, covered in cuts and rope burns, dried blood around his nose, but hardly in any sort of dire condition like Jaskier seemed to be. Finally, the man found the correct switch, and the cage door opened with a click. Geralt shoved it open and sprinted out, reaching Jaskier’s side in moments and grabbing him before he collapsed entirely, helping him sit down on the ground. “Why do you have such a hard time keeping your blood _inside_ your body?” Geralt spat, ripping a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapping it around the wound on Jaskier’s neck and under his arm to apply pressure. He was covered in other scrapes and gashes, but the one on his neck seemed the most concerning.

“Well, to be honest, it was sort of the whole plan this time around.” Jaskier said with a sigh, head resting back against the cool wall of the terminal. 

Geralt blinked for a moment, then sniffed him. The dark scent of magic came through the coppery tinge of the blood. “You drank a Black Blood potion?” 

“Yeah, good thing you labelled them. Turns out Black Blood isn’t actually the black one.” 

“Jaskier, that could have killed you!” Geralt snarled. “Hell, it still could! My potions are not meant for human bodies.” 

“Feels like my blood’s made of a trillion hedgehogs on fire.” Jaskier sniffed. “Did any of the other victims make it?” 

“Aye, most of them. They’re a few rooms over. I met our client, needless to say, he was unimpressed by my rescue attempt.” Geralt grunted, grabbing at the man and hoisting him up again, receiving a choked complaint. “I take it the Fleder is dead?” 

“Is that what that was?” 

“A lesser vampire. Apparently, this cult of idiots managed to tame one, and have been using it to do their dirty work in all this.” 

“Mm, yes. Tim told me all about their little scheme.” 

“Tim? The pizza boy?” 

“Turns out he was an aspiring cult member himself. They promised to turn him into a _real_ vampire like their little pet if he proved his worth.” Jaskier chuckled, trying not to be too much of a burden as Geralt began to walk him through the room. “Doesn’t quite work that way though, right?” 

“Not in the least.” 

The pair hobbled down through the belly of the building, heading for the room where the other prisoners were kept. Their cage was a bit more flimsy, and Geralt ripped the door off the hinges without breaking much of a sweat. The filthy, ratty prisoners spilled out with cries of relief, helping the weaker of them to their feet. They thanked Geralt as they went, who assured them the ‘vampires’ were long gone. They were all varying degrees of malnourished, eyes dim, skin pallid. This whole thing had been going on for almost a year now, who knew how long some of the victims in here had been caged down here. The ones who hadn't been fed to the Fleder, anyway.

“Is little Jane’s father among you?” Jaskier asked weakly from the floor. 

One of the men who had been making his way out of the cage startled, glancing down at him. “Is she okay?” 

“Oh, she’s fine.” Jaskier brushed his concern aside. “I just wanted to tell you that she has excellent taste in friends.” 

The client, who finally identified himself as Ed, shook Geralt’s hand vigorously. “I’m so sorry for what I said to you,” he said ashamedly, “I should have known a Witcher would be resourceful enough to escape capture.” 

Geralt glanced down at Jaskier, “Actually, my-” 

“Yes, he really is quite incredible, isn’t he?” Jaskier cut Geralt off, “Witchers, my friend; there’s nothing more reliable when it comes to monster troubles! Unstoppable, unbreakable!” 

“Jesus, are you alright?” Ed scrunched his face when he glanced down. “You look like you went through a wood chipper.” 

“Oh, yes. It’s a harrowing story, really. Why, the vampire had me in its terrible clutches, I was a dead man, truly!” Jaskier said dramatically, head bobbing a bit as he gestured. “When suddenly, there was Geralt; broken free from his prison, just in time to rip the beast from my battered body and slay it right before my eyes!” 

“...aren’t you the man I spoke with on the phone?” 

“Hm? Oh, yes. I’m Jaskier, Geralt’s manager.” 

“Seems like a pretty hands-on job.” 

“Ah, well, you know. If I must put my life on the line to bring a hero to those in need, I’m more than happy to-” 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Geralt hoisted Jaskier up once again, arm around his midsection to help him stay upright. “Let’s go patch you up before you bleed out entirely. Again.” 

The sun was beginning to bleed out from behind the horizon, dripping in through the windows of the B&B. A sleepless night for many, but at the moment, despite the terribly long night, Jaskier wasn’t at all bothered by fatigue. 

“You know, I feel absolutely fantastic!” He proclaimed. “It’s like honey running through my veins! I feel as though I could run for miles, and I hate running!” 

“As you’ve said, at least six times.” Geralt grunted, annoyed, starting to regret giving the musician that antidote. To think, blood poisoning had been so close to ending this weeks-long headache. “Now hold still.” 

“ _Oi, that’s the shoddiest stitching job I’ve ever seen in my unlicensed career._ ” Raully’s irritated voice came through, a bit wonky from the poor wi-fi connection, the grouchy-faced image on the video feed skipping now and then. 

“Wait, wait. Unlicensed?” Jaskier stared down at his bare chest, torn through with the scars from the werewolf’s claws, ignoring the massacre of a stitching job Geralt was committing at the base of his neck. “Are these your damn fault, then?” 

“ _Oh, please. Those big-shot university doctors couldn’t have done any better._ ” Raully waved him off. “ _Anyway, a contact of mine confirmed the Feds will be upon the town soon. What with the considerable amount of eyewitness reports and blood evidence in the mill, I imagine it will be an easy cleanup._ ” 

“And our client paid us far more generously than his initial offer.” Jaskier grinned. “All in all, I’d say this was a rather successful hunt!” 

“Speaking of, why did you say those things to the client?” Geralt asked, “You were the one who defeated the monster.” It physically hurt him to admit it, all things considered. Jaskier was, in fact, rather capable and ingenious on occasion. He’d outsmarted the monster, and killed it by his own methods, without any help from Geralt. Perhaps not the sword-wielding glory of a Witcher, but in the end, Jaskier proved Geralt wrong every time he said this was no place for a human. Not that Geralt would admit any of that. Ever. 

“Sure, but that’s not the image we’re going for.” Jaskier shrugged, Geralt grumbling when the action made him miss the mark with the needle. “If this is going to be a successful business, we need you to maintain an image of infallible Witcher, the hero of humans and slayer of beasts. They’ll tell their friends, and your reputation will spread. It would be counterproductive to tell anyone that a silly little human rescued the big tough Witcher.” 

“Still, I’d think you would want the credit.” 

“Just because I’m a dramatic lush for attention doesn’t mean I’m not willing to defer the attention to someone else when the situation calls for it.” 

“It’s killing you inside, though.” 

“God, yeah. It fucking is.” 

Later that day, Jaskier leaned against the counter as he checked out of the B&B. Mary’s eyes were glued to the little TV in the room, where a news report was highlighting the events of the massive city-wide arrests and investigation of the mill building. 

“Goodness, I can’t believe the extent of it.” Mary said, wide-eyed. “I knew awful things were happening here, but... Oh, they killed so many people, it’s... it’s beyond sickening!” 

“Well, on the bright side,” Jaskier rested his chin in his hand, “you’ll be getting an influx of patrons after this.” 

Mary glanced back at him, “Oh?” 

“People are terribly fascinated with the morbid, and there’s a certain kind that will most certainly travel to have a look at the town that held a vampire death cult.” 

“Oh dear.” Mary scrunched her nose, finally turning back to process Jaskier’s payment. “...I don’t suppose you boys had anything to do with any of this?” She asked, eyeing the bandage on Jaskier’s neck. “It is awful timely, you checking in in the height of all this, and checking out when it’s over. You never did say what your business is here.” 

Jaskier grinned and spread his hands, “You’re a sharp woman there, Mary!” 

Little Alice appeared from around the desk shyly, “They’re vampire hunters, mummy!” 

Mary glanced down at her with an eyebrow raised. Jaskier put a hand at the side of his mouth to hide his words and whispered, “I thought she might take that a little better than _private investigator_.” 

“Well then, detective,” Mary laughed, “I suppose I have you to thank for making my little town safe again.” 

“I wish you all the best, Mary dear.” Jaskier saluted her as he grabbed his bag and began to back away, “And take care of your mother, Alice!” 

“I will!” 

Jaskier headed out into the parking lot, where Geralt waited. The Witcher was leaning against Roach with his arms folded, sunglasses obscuring his golden eyes. “Right, then." Jaskier spoke up, "I’ve checked the boards, there’s a few smaller hunts within a day’s ride of each other, figure we can knock those out before we hit another big one.” 

“Fine.” Geralt pushed off from his bike, turning to double check that his bags were secure. He paused for a minute, glancing over at Jaskier as he was loading his own bags onto his bike. “You know, I... I’ve meant to say.” He grit his teeth. “If someone’s making you feel unsafe, like that man at the bar... you can just ask, and I’ll make them fuck off.” 

Jaskier glanced over in surprise, tilting his head to think on that for a moment, “Oh, now don’t worry about me.” He smiled. “I can handle myself. I do appreciate that, though.” 

“Whatever.” Geralt turned back, feeling a bit flustered. “Let’s get out of this damn town.” 

Jaskier smirked to himself as he swung a leg over to mount his bike. Emotional constipation was, at times, rather endearing to witness. And it was truly heartwarming, that Geralt seemed to be settling into his presence enough to at least try and say the things on his mind that he found difficult to get out. 

As he worked to start up his trashy bike, Jaskier mentioned, “You know, I was considering calling my bike Dracula, since it likes to drain my gas money. But I think I find that in poor taste, now.” 

Geralt’s lip turned up in a hint of a smirk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to cat_cafe for the suggestion of vampires!


	6. Best Fiends

“It looks like a penis.” 

“Everything looks like a penis to you.” 

“I guess I just see what I want.” Jaskier smirked. He tore his eyes away from the sculpture in front of him, down at the info podium, and glanced over the description of the piece. “ _This_ is definitely a penis, though. _The Pillar of Creation_ , really leaving it up to interpretation there.” 

“I thought you said I’d be experiencing some, and I quote, ‘much needed culture’ here?” Geralt scowled. 

“That’s the thing about human culture, my dear.” Jaskier pulled away from the phallic art piece and started down the path once again. “All of it is just increasingly elaborate ways to display our unhealthy obsession with genitalia.” 

“Well, you’re not wrong.” 

The pair strolled through the sculpture garden with waning interest. A temporary display set outside by art students, Jaskier had noticed the advertisements along the road and demanded they take a break from their long ride and take a gander. Some of it was intriguing for certain, but the vast quantities of attempts at ‘artful nudity’ was starting to become... monotonous. “I guarantee, every single one of these was made by a horny young man looking for any excuse to sculpt a pair of breasts. As appreciative as I am of the subject in question, is there nothing else also of interest in this beautiful, varied world of ours?” 

“This was your idea.” 

“Well, at least the weather is enjoyable.” Jaskier sighed, glancing over at another piece. “Alright, this is a rock. This person rolled a big fucking rock in here and slapped their name on it. What have the art programs of America come to?” 

Geralt stifled a groan as he turned away, facing a piece that looked a hell of a lot like someone upturned a garbage can over a pedestal. He couldn’t help but wonder, in this moment, how the hell he’d gotten here. Not so long ago, if someone demanded he stop to look at a random student art exhibit, he would have sneered and kept on driving. And now here he was, giving in to most everything this obnoxious young man that practically threw himself into his life asked of him, for reasons he couldn’t even explain to himself. 

In the beginning, he thought he’d just carry on his business, and if Jaskier wanted to tag along, he’d have to keep up. And yet Geralt found himself constantly waiting on the man; waiting for him to start his mess of a bike up, waiting for him to drag himself out of bed far later than he’d prefer, taking the time to explain his thought process on a hunt or answer questions about monsters, and now stopping spontaneously for a stupid art exhibit when all he wanted was to reach their destination in a timely manner. 

He’d been denying it to himself, pushing it down where he didn’t need to analyze it for a while; but he knew there was something growing, deep inside the heart he wasn’t supposed to have. 

The town was quaint, upscale, architectural. Sunny gardens and green lawns and large houses, all of the shops and their signs styled cohesively and aesthetically. An elderly couple sneered at Geralt and Jaskier as they rode past, expressions that screamed ‘how dare you bring those noisy machines into _my_ peaceful town?’. Even the Valley signs followed the town’s regulated aesthetic, brown and white with fancy lettering. He almost struggled to read the runes, in that overly extravagant cursive font. Eventually, he managed to locate the local healer, riding into the lot and parking at the far end. Not that he needed to worry about anyone being reckless around Roach in a town like this; more than likely _everyone_ had expensive cars to worry about as well. 

“ _Alisa’s Apothecary and Acupuncture_.” Jaskier read the sign on the building as he pulled his little ukulele case from the bike and swung it over his shoulder. “Does every Valley healer pick a different type of alternative medicine as their front?” 

“It’s the best way to stay under the radar.” Geralt said, kicking down the stand on his bike and ensuring it was stable. “No one would bat an eyelash at shipments of strange herbs going to a place of natural healing.” 

“Fair point.” 

“Come on, then.” Geralt started across the lot. “We were supposed to receive this hunt by noon, and we’ve already had a late start thanks to your breast exhibit.” 

Jaskier snickered at that. 

The pair headed up the ornate staircase, the stone warming in the noonday sun. Geralt pulled open the glass door, the shop’s logo etched in opaque white, holding it wide for Jaskier to head through. “Why, what a gentleman!” Jaskier beamed as he walked past. Geralt rolled his eyes and followed behind. 

Jaskier headed for the back of the store, striding up to the bored-looking young man behind the cashier’s desk. “Potion seller!” Jaskier proclaimed loudly, startling the man, “I am going into battle, and I want your strongest potions!” 

The cashier blinked, “...what?” 

“Potion Seller,” Jaskier slapped a hand down on the desk dramatically, “I tell you I am going into battle, and I want only your strongest potions.” 

The man glanced around the shop, and once he was satisfied that it was empty, he turned back to Jaskier, giving him a once-over, “You uh, you know potions like that aren’t for humans, right? Our bodies can’t handle them?” 

“Potion Seller, listen to me; I want only your strongest potions!” 

“You would literally die, dude. I mean, unless you want them for your Witcher buddy back there-” 

“Potion Seller, enough of these games!” Jaskier drew himself up, “I'm going into battle and I need your strongest-” 

Geralt came up and shoved Jaskier aside before turning to the cashier, “My apologies, a werewolf ate half his brain some time ago.” He planted his hands on the desk, “I’m to meet someone here, do you know if they have arrived?” 

“I don’t know, I just work here.” The man shrugged. “Alisa’s upstairs, maybe she knows.” 

Geralt thanked the man and headed off for the back door, Jaskier in tow. After they’d gone through the door and started up the stairs, he turned to the smaller man, “What the hell was that about?” 

“Oh, just something I’ve intended to get out of my system the next Valley healer we came upon.” Jaskier grinned. “I’d try to explain it to you, but it would be wasted effort.” 

“One of those... meme... things?” 

“I’m shocked you even know that word.” 

The staircase landed the pair up in a large, sunlit room full of alchemy equipment, drying herbs and tomes; like most Valley healers. A middle-aged woman, probably Alisa, stood at the other end, speaking with a fit-looking man. Geralt started for them, when suddenly he was stopped by a hand on his chest. He glanced over to see another muscled man had stepped out from behind the wall. “What’s your business here, Witcher?” The man said, hostility in his voice. 

“My business is of no concern to Knights.” He said evenly, fixing the man with a golden-eyed stare. 

The Knight bared his teeth, “Everything that goes on in this town is Knight business. Declare yourself or be-” 

“Calm yourself, Sir Marin.” The man who had been speaking with the healer was headed their way now. He had a look of authority, the way he held himself. “If there is a language that Witchers speak better than any, it is violence. You would not win that argument.” He stopped in front of them, chin up in superiority, voice dangerously playful. “Far easier to outsmart them. If there is one muscle those monstrous mutations do not affect, it is the one within the skull.” 

“Excuse _me_ , you mud-slinging pork rind.” Jaskier stepped forward, furious look on his face as he jabbed a finger on the man’s chest. “But from all the shit talking you appear to rely on, you don’t exactly strike me as an intellectual yourself.” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt warned. 

The Knight laughed, looking down at Jaskier unconcernedly, “Witchers keep pets now, eh?” He glanced at the instrument strapped to his back, “Silly jesters that follow along to play them songs on the lonely nights?” 

“I wonder why no one gives a shit enough to follow _you_ around?” Jaskier taunted. 

“Let me give you a little advice, boy.” The Knight leaned down, bringing his face close, “Witchers are no better than the monsters they supposedly hunt. They’re unpredictable, entirely lack empathy, and will sooner gut you than step out of your way. They may appear human, but they’re nothing more than beasts. I advise you go find a Knight to follow around instead.” 

“I’d sooner sing the praises of a construction site outhouse before I said anything kind about a Knight.” Jaskier sneered, refusing to back down. 

“We’ll see about that. One day, little one, this beast here will turn on you. You will pray, on that day, that a valiant Knight will be there to save you.” He smirked, “Perhaps, if the gods will it, it will be I with my sword between that Witcher's ribcage on that day. Bleeding him like the wild boar he-” 

Jaskier snarled and leapt at the Knight, only just stopped short by Geralt’s quick arms around his torso, pulling him back towards himself. “That’s _enough_ , Jaskier.” The Witcher fought the squirming man, who was strangely strong in this moment, fueled by his rage, letting off a litany of colorful curses and imaginative threats. 

The Knight only laughed, raising his arms. “What an absolutely _feral_ bard.” He glanced back up at Geralt. “All the makings of a Witcher, eh?” 

“That’s quite enough indeed.” The healer walked over, gesturing sternly. “This is neutral ground, and I will have no quarrelling in my house. Be on your way, Sir Shaffer.” 

“Sir Shaftless more like.” Jaskier growled. 

“ _Jaskier_.” 

Sir Shaffer and his companion only chuckled at that, bidding the healer farewell as they headed off down the stairs. Only once they were long gone did Geralt release Jaskier. The man fixed his shirt with a huff, “You should have let me at them, Geralt. I’d have torn that ridiculous smirk right off his face! What an absolute bigot, what does he know of Witchers? Why, I’ve never met anyone less of a monster than you, Geralt! If anyone’s a beast, it's that protein-pissing-” 

As Jaskier went on with his tirade, Geralt couldn’t help the strangely warm feeling building up inside of him, and fought the urge to smirk. No one had ever defended him like that before. Most people ignored the treatment, or even joined in. It was an alien experience, for anyone who wasn’t a fellow Witcher to recognize the fact that he wasn’t simply a heartless, bloodthirsty monster as his reputation liked to suggest. Hell, even some of his fellow Witchers had bought into that lie. 

“Alright, alright.” Geralt finally cut in. “We have business to attend to.” He turned to the healer, who was looking at Jaskier with amusement. “I was supposed to be meeting a client here this afternoon, regarding a hunt.” 

“Yes, Levana, the local sorceress.” Alisa nodded. “She told me to relay you a message, if you’ll hear it now.” 

“Aye, please, go on.” 

“She claims there is a fiend that lives in the deep forest of the northwestern part of this region, the source of a great many hiker deaths. She is interested in acquiring the third eye of a fiend. If you can slay the beast and bring back its eye, she will pay handsomely.” 

“That is a rare and difficult ingredient to acquire indeed.” Geralt grunted. “Fiends are quite dangerous. I hope her idea of handsome pay is within the same range as mine.” 

“I assure you, money is of no consequence to her.” The healer smiled wistfully. “She told me to emphasize that for you.” 

“Very well. I accept.” 

“When you have retrieved the eye, bring it to the cottage down on 23 Lime Tree Wynd. She will be waiting.” She glanced at Jaskier, who was still quietly fuming off to the side, arms crossed. “And I advise you stay clear of the Knights. I don’t think Sir Shaffer would launch an attack without provocation, but his idea of provocation may be a little... gray." 

“I’d like to see him try.” Jaskier muttered. 

“Understood.” Geralt responded to Alisa. “Hardly my first run in with men like him.” He turned and started for the stairwell, grabbing Jaskier by the shirt as he went. “Come on, little badger.” 

As they rode down the highway in the direction of the forest region the healer mentioned, Geralt couldn’t help but think about the potential payout. A hunt like this was rare these days, and the reward promised would be enough that he could consider affording a rest day afterwards. His stamina was endless and his body fortified, but even he grew weary of constant travel. Jaskier would be ecstatic at the idea of a day off, he thought. A day where he was free to do whatever he- not that Geralt cared, of course. What Jaskier felt was of no consequence to him. 

The sun was still high in the sky by the time they reached the forest edge, parking their bikes in the lot of a trailhead. Geralt pulled on his hiking boots, then grabbed his large backpack, filling it with all the weapons and potions he would require for the fight ahead, as well as his sleeping bag and everything else he would need if they wound up needing to camp out. Jaskier protested having to carry things himself, stating that all the stamina he possessed was only very useful in bed, that he was no hiker, and perhaps the infinitely stronger Witcher could carry his things for him. 

“You could consider not bringing the ukulele.” 

“Geralt, that would be like not bringing my left leg.” 

“I’m carrying all the food and particularly heavy objects, you’ll be alright.” 

“Fine, but I’m gonna complain the whole time.” 

Although he did complain for about ten minutes, eventually Jaskier got distracted by the hike itself. Running over to a tree covered in mushrooms, watching a brightly-colored bird, pointing out a legally protected flower that looked suspiciously like a scrotum. For someone who complained about having no stamina, the man certainly didn’t seem to notice his own exhaustion when he had something of interest to look at. It was like watching a child run around in a candy store, and strangely amusing. Maybe it was just the fresh air, warm sunshine and being out in the forest where he felt more at home than in the city, but Geralt was in a decent mood. 

As they walked, Geralt searched for signs of the fiend. Footprints, dung, scent trails. He found nothing yet, but he was not surprised. It would not venture so far to the edge of the forest; the creatures preferred to stay deep within the heart, far from human civilization. A good thing, too. The things could easily decimate a town if they came too close. This meant they had quite a hike ahead of them, however. They would likely be making camp tonight, and had several hours of monotonous walking ahead of them. 

“I should teach you to use that pistol.” Geralt spoke up. “You might not have been injured in the Fleder incident if you’d known how.” 

Jaskier glanced up from the glittering rock he was fiddling around with. “Oh, no, that’s uh, that’s alright.” 

“I’m not saying you need to use it, I’m just saying it would be good to learn how, just in case.” 

“Listen Geralt, I’ll be honest with you.” Jaskier winced. “Those things terrify me. I’m more scared of shooting my own foot off than getting chewed on by a Fleder.” 

“Perhaps you wouldn’t be so afraid of them if you knew how to not shoot your own foot off.” 

“Or perhaps I would be more afraid of them.” 

“Jaskier, this is a dangerous line of work.” Geralt said exasperatedly. “If you’re going to insist on putting yourself in harm’s way all the time, it would be better if you at least knew _how_ to defend yourself. I’m not always going to be there in time to save you.” 

Jaskier fidgeted, considering that. “I suppose that’s fair.” He said quietly. “I’ll do it under one condition.” 

“What’s that?” 

“You stand behind me and reposition my arms in an extremely sexually tense fashion.” 

Geralt sighed. 

The forest was beginning to darken by the time Geralt decided they’d done enough traveling for the day. “I don’t want to wait until I spot signs of the fiend before we make camp.” He said. “Better if it doesn’t catch us sleeping.” 

“What are fiends, anyway?” Jaskier asked, tossing his bag down on the ground with a satisfying thud. “Raully shipped a bestiary tome out for me, but I won’t get it until we reach the next town on our list.” 

“Basically a deer-bear,” Geralt said, setting his bags down and starting to clear a spot for a fire, “the size of a barn.” 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, “The size of a _barn_? What do you have to do, climb up its back and stab it in the glowing sigil?” 

“I would highly recommend _not_ climbing a fiend.” Geralt gathered some sticks, beginning to pile arrange them into a campfire. “It’s not an easy fight, but I’ve slain my fair share.” 

“Well, I suppose this shall be quite the epic scene to witness.” 

The night was becoming crisp by the time the orange light of the fire licked the forest around them. Geralt sat on a log, assembling a just-roasted hot dog while Jaskier sat on the other side, gently strumming his ukulele and humming softly. Geralt glanced over now and then thoughtfully. He recalled the first time Jaskier pulled out his instrument as they camped, how much it had irritated him as a man so accustomed to complete silence at all times. Now, only a few weeks later, the idea of silence not cut with gentle music seemed maddening. 

It was puzzling, how someone can be so irritating, and yet so endearing despite. 

“Are you writing a song about the vampires?” Geralt asked, taking a bite of his dinner. 

Jaskier looked up, rather surprised that Geralt was asking after the subject, considering he was generally so vocally against his music. “Oh yes, the poetry of a vampire poisoned by the blood it consumed practically writes itself.” 

“I don’t suppose ‘Dandelion the bard’ will take the role of hero in this one?” 

“As intriguing as my non-Valley listeners may find that role reversal, we cannot afford any cracks in the reputation we must build for you.” 

“As you’ve said.” Geralt grunted, then he stuffed the rest of the hot dog in his mouth before turning and reached into his bag. He pulled a bundle from deep within, turning back to offer it to Jaskier, “I don’t suppose you... had any interest in making those things again?” 

Jaskier blinked at the bag of marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate, at Geralt’s face which was barely obscuring a hopeful expression. He cracked a grin, set aside his instrument and took the bundle. “One perfectly golden marshmallow coming up!” 

\-- 

“Like this?” 

“Your stance is all wrong. I told you, legs shoulder width apart.” 

“Oh, you want me to spread my legs for you, Geralt?” 

“All you’re spreading right now is my patience, and it’s getting thin.” 

“Why don’t you come over here and show me what you mean, then?” 

Geralt held in a groan and put his sword down from where he was rubbing it with relict oil. He started over to Jaskier, who was standing with the pistol raised towards a haphazardly painted target on a tree. If playing along with the musician’s silly game was what got this training over with so Geralt could rest a little easier during hunts, then so be it. 

“What's your dominant?” Geralt asked when he reached Jaskier’s side. 

“Job’s open, if you’re interested in applying.” Jaskier grinned. 

“Dominant _hand_.” 

“You’re no fun.” Jaskier sighed, shifting his weight to one leg. “Right hand.” 

“Legs shoulder width apart, right foot a bit behind the other.” 

“If this doesn’t turn into a dance, I shall be disappointed.” Jaskier said, but shifted his position as he was told. “I do know how to rumba you- ow!” 

Geralt kicked Jaskier’s front foot a bit so it turned towards the target, ignoring his complaint and walking around him to his other side. “Arms up.” 

Jaskier grumbled and brought the pistol up, facing the target again. 

“Left hand around the grip,” Geralt placed his hands over Jaskier’s to move them, showing him the correct positioning by example, “right hand above it, right pointer on the trigger.” 

“This isn’t quite what I had in mind when I imagined us holding hands.” Jaskier teased as he obediently shifted his fingers. He couldn’t help the little tinge of satisfaction he got at feeling those strong, rough hands over his own. 

“Tighten your grip.” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

Geralt held back an exasperated groan and dropped his hands, ignoring Jaskier’s quips. “Now, the most important thing you need to remember-” 

“There’s always money in the banana stand.” Jaskier cut in. 

“Y- what?” 

“Nothing, continue.” 

Geralt sighed, and took a few steps back so he was hovering over Jaskier’s shoulder. “The most important thing is to check whether the safety is on. As I assured you earlier, it currently is. Memorize what it looks like when it’s on.” 

“Oh trust me, it’s all I’ve been looking at.” 

“Now switch it off.” 

“O-okay.” Jaskier gulped, staring at the pistol for a long moment before moving his fingers up to the safety. He hesitated a moment, hovering over the switch for a while before he finally seemed to work up the courage to flip it to the off position. The moment he did, Geralt could practically feel the burst of nervous energy emanating off the man, and he frowned. It was good to have a healthy fear of the weapon, keeps you from getting careless. But at this rate, Geralt was worried Jaskier was going to throw the thing like a hot potato. 

“Now, line up the sight with the target.” Geralt pointed out where Jaskier should be looking down the barrel. “When you’ve got it, take the shot.” 

Jaskier raised his arms higher, squinting down the barrel. He swallowed nervously as he tried to line the tip of the sight up with the shoddily-painted center of the target on the tree, but found it difficult with his trembling arms. Every time he thought he’d found it, the line was broken by his ever-shifting position. He held his breath and willed his arms to stay still, but they only shook more, the edge of his vision beginning to become blurry, the target a fuzzy mass, so hard to think, the ringing in his ears- 

Suddenly, he felt a warm body at his back as Geralt reached out from behind and gently placed his hands over Jaskier’s again. His sure, strong arms steady, like an anchor, wrapped around Jaskier’s, taking the weight and allowing his muscles to relax. Felt like falling back into a warm bathtub, embracing him in calm, and his trembling began to subside. Perhaps it was the vulnerability of the moment, but Jaskier, who was by no means foreign to intimacy, found himself flushing a bit. 

“Breathe.” Geralt rumbled calmly. “Pull the trigger when you’re ready.” 

Jaskier took a long breath, then exhaled slowly. He felt a calm wash through him, and he held the gun steady as Geralt slowly dropped his own arms. He looked down the barrel and took another breath as he lined up the sight once again, held it for a few moments, then pulled the trigger. 

The sound was a loud pop that startled him, then the burst of wood splintering, as he struggled in that fraction of a second to counter the recoil like Geralt had explained earlier. He stayed frozen in place for a long moment, blinking and staring at the tree. He’d by no means hit the center of the target, but he'd grazed the outer circle around it, the tree now sporting a deep gauge. 

Geralt circled the man and stopped beside him, glancing at the target. “Not bad, for a first try.” 

“I think I’m quite done for the day.” Jaskier let out a long breath, glancing down at the gun and feeling a spark of anxiety again now that the initial shock was over. “Fleders are fairly large, if ever I need to shoot one, I think I’ll be able to hit some portion of its body at least.” 

“Perhaps you’ll at least surprise it long enough to escape next time.” Geralt said with amusement, holding out a hand to take the gun. When Jaskier eagerly handed the pistol over, Geralt could feel that the tremors had returned to the man’s hands. He raised an eyebrow as he flipped the safety on and removed the magazine. “It wasn’t _that_ bad, was it?” 

“No, no. I just...” Jaskier swallowed, wrapping his arms around himself. “Haven't had the best experiences being in close proximity to those things.” 

“Hm.” Geralt wondered about that. As much as Jaskier liked to talk, he never really said anything specific about his past. While he was a little curious, he didn’t want to pry. Jaskier would talk about it when he was ready. “Well, if you’d be a little less reckless on these hunts, perhaps you won’t need to-” 

He stopped, suddenly; ears pricking, whipping his head around to stare off through the woods. 

Jaskier blinked, “Uhh, Geralt? Call of the wild or-?” 

“ _Quiet_.” Geralt sniffed the air for a moment. “The fiend is here. Must have heard the gunshot.” 

Jaskier looked alarmed, “Like, _here_ here?” He whispered, and then even he could hear he crashing through the forest, tree branches snapping, the ground rumbling underfoot. His eyes widened and he backed away slowly. 

Geralt quickly strode over to where he had dropped his sword, kneeling down to pull a potion from his bag, tossing the pistol down on the ground next to it before grabbing the weapon by the hilt. Jaskier dashed over to his side, glancing warily at the trees. “Geralt, _Geralt,_ the last time I saw something like this, a goat got eaten by a T-rex, and we don’t even have a jeep.” 

“You’re going to wish it was a T-rex.” Geralt ripped the cork off the bottle with his teeth, then threw his head back to down the potion all at once. “You need to run. This is going to be a wide battle, I don’t need you getting underfoot.” He tossed the empty potion bottle back down in the bag, then reached in to grab the rest of his weapons; then paused. “What, no snark or protest?” He glanced up at his companion. 

Jaskier stood rooted in place, unmoving. His gaze was fixed on a point over Geralt’s shoulder, expression blank. His typically icy blue eyes had taken on a strange, red hue. 

It was in that same moment that Geralt also realized that the crashing through the trees had stopped. 

“Shit.” 

A bear-like roar erupted from behind Geralt at the same time he launched himself into the air. He tackled the frozen Jaskier to the ground just as a massive, snarling body flew overhead; clawed, meaty paws just a hair away from gauging either of them. Geralt landed hard on top of Jaskier with a grunt, but the man underneath him was a limp deadweight; eyes glazed over and dazed, entirely unaware. It would be unnerving, if Geralt couldn’t clearly hear his pulse and knew exactly what had happened. 

Geralt scrambled to his feet, grabbing his sword from the ground just as the beast managed to stop its lumbering weight, kicking up dirt as its claws dug into the ground in an effort to counter the momentum and turn around. He glanced down at Jaskier, who lay paralyzed on his back, before turning and hurrying to grab something out of his bag. The beast had only begun to charge again, antlers down in an intent to pierce, when Geralt spun and threw the object at it. The object exploded across the fiend’s face in a loud bang, throwing dust across it. It bleated in a startled, panicked tone, eyes going wide as it changed direction mid-charge to get away from the ear-piercing noise. It tumbled far into the woods, crashing over brush and ripping branches from the trees. 

Not wanting to waste this opportunity to move the battle away from Jaskier’s body, who could no longer flee, Geralt grabbed a handful of bombs, shoving them in his various pockets as he ran off in pursuit of the beast. He threw more samum bombs after it, herding it with its fear of loud noises. 

It roared and snarled and bleated angrily as it thundered through the forest. Its swollen, deer-like head brandished massive, branching antlers, a pale eye at either side. A third sat nestled at the center of its forehead, glowing red like Jaskier’s had. Its flesh was thick and grizzled, the texture of an elephant’s, mottled white and gray. Its massive body, many times bigger than Geralt, bulged with muscle and sinew, covered in patches of black hair, and sported a thin tail tipped with a tuft. 

The beast eventually slowed to a canter, trotting in a circle, lowering its head predatorily as it stared at Geralt, rounding him. Geralt slowed to a stop as well, twirling his sword before he raised it up threateningly, tracking the creature’s movements. A standoff, like the ring of a wrestling match, as the two predators stared into each other’s eyes, daring the other to make the first move. 

In the end, the fiend moved first. Snarling, it reared back, and launched itself towards Geralt, antlers down in a charge. Geralt waited until the last second, anticipating its motion, and then leapt to the side, bringing his sword down in a strong arc as the monster barreled past. It snarled in pain, the deep gash left in its side gushing black liquid, smoking from the burn of the oiled silver. It turned on a dime and lashed out with one of its massive arms, claws rigid and caked with dirt. 

“Quen!” Geralt bit out, whipping his hand up in the gesture of the sign. A golden glow erupted around him, and the claws bounced harmlessly off the magic shield, sending Geralt skidding backwards with the impact of it. 

They did this dance over and over. The beast charging, swiping, snapping its fangs and bucking its horns. Geralt dodged, blocked and slashed, throwing samum bombs and devil’s puffballs to confuse the beast while he threw a blow. Its snarls and roars became more desperate as it realized it was losing the battle, its attacks more frantic and wild, and one of its claw swipes caught Geralt across the side of his forehead. He hissed with the pain of it, but ignored it, and kept pressing the fight. 

Suddenly, the fiend took a mighty leap, soaring over Geralt. It landed far out of his reach, the ground rumbling under its impact, dug its claws into the ground, and started running. Geralt leapt after it; the fight was nearly finished, he could not let the beast escape to lick its wounds now. He ducked down, narrowly avoiding a falling tree branch, when he suddenly noticed the already-shorn branches ahead of the beast. 

He realized, with a start, that they’d circled back to where Jaskier was finally beginning to regain consciousness, sitting up in a daze. 

Geralt reached down to grab more bombs, to herd the beast away again; but to his frustration, there were none left on his person. No samum bombs nor devil’s puffballs; no way to stop the beast on its thundering charge. It barreled on towards the clearing like a bull after a flag. Geralt pressed himself into a harder run, focusing all of his energy into getting ahead of the creature. 

Jaskier pressed a hand to his head, bobbing a bit in his daze. The darkness obscuring his sight was only just beginning to clear, and he was looking around in confusion. “Uuugh, whad I drink?” He slurred, then squinted when he saw a shape coming towards him. “Geralt, issat you? Who’s that- uh big fella’ behind- hmmm no can’t hear you sorry, buzzing in my- oh.” 

Geralt slammed forward before turning on his heel, kicking up dirt as he launched himself in the opposite direction, towards the fiend. It bellowed, startled as, in a fraction of a second, Geralt’s sword pierced its chest, its own weight driving it through the heart. It snarled and shrieked in pain as it went tumbling down headfirst, its heavy body continuing its momentum as it crashed to the ground, sliding on through the brush. Jaskier’s eyes widened in shock as it stopped, antler tips just a hair from his face. 

The fiend lay in the impact crater its fall dug into the forest floor, dead. 

Geralt remained crouching, breathing hard for a while before he finally pushed himself to his feet and walked over. With a heave, he shoved the beast’s body over, grabbing the hilt of his sword, and pulling it free with a sickeningly wet sound, dripping with black liquid. Jaskier looked between the dead fiend and Geralt, back and forth, seemingly shocked. 

“...so, what did I miss?” 

“Well, I suppose I shall have to use my extensive imagination when I write the song for this battle. A shame, really. I’ll bet it was grand to witness.” 

Jaskier sat on a log, a blanket over his shoulders while he sipped on water, watching Geralt cut into the dead fiend’s forehead. The gore hardly even affected him anymore, having observed the Witcher carving out the valuable bits of several monsters by now. “What was that potion you drank, anyway?” 

“Cat potion.” Geralt responded, carefully avoiding piercing the eye itself as he sliced through the flesh and separated it from the skull bone. “Alters the way the eye receives wavelengths of light, including hypnotic ones.” 

“Uh huh. Too bad you didn’t have a second bottle for me, eh?” 

“If you drank a Cat potion, your brain would hemorrhage and your eyes would explode.” 

“...well, that would take care of the hypnosis at least.” 

Geralt’s lip quirked in a bit of a smile. 

The hike back went a bit more slowly, considering Geralt was encumbered by the two massive fiend antlers he’d sawed off the beast, and Jaskier was still feeling fuzzy after the hypnotism. It was dusk by the time they once again reached the parking lot. Considering the hour, they decided to make camp once again near the bikes, and went right to curling up in their sleeping bags; too tired for dinner or a fire. 

Morning came, the warm golden rays reaching down through the trees, a drop of morning dew dripping down onto Geralt’s nose and rousing him. He moved to sit up, a bit sore from his battle with the fiend, and glanced over at Jaskier. The man was so burrowed in his obnoxiously-colored sleeping bag that all he could see was the tufts of his hair poking out, his soft snoring muffled. The calm forest around them was a bit hazy with mist, glowing softly in the morning sunlight. 

Geralt got up and went about packing, kicking the protesting Jaskier awake, then worked on cleaning the wound on his forehead from the claws of the fiend while he waited for the drowsy man to get up. The gash was already beginning to knit closed, scabbed over, but it was still caked in the dried blood he’d ignored in favor of going to sleep. It wouldn’t do to ride into the posh town so frighteningly messy, lest some bored, paranoid old lady call the authorities on him. 

The sun was nearly above the horizon by the time the pair hit the road. The streets were calm at this time of morning, before the madness of the commute. The people in the cars that did pass them by stared at the massive antlers tied securely to Roach, rubbing their eyes as though the sight was caused by morning delirium, a couple of them nearly crashing from their rubbernecking. 

Geralt opted to stop into the healer’s first to unload them, as well as the other organs he had harvested from the monster. Even if she didn’t use them herself, most healers were happy to buy valuable monster parts, in order to sell them off to magic-users later. Considering fiend parts were extremely rare and difficult to come by, Geralt came out of Alisa’s Apothecary and Acupuncture significantly wealthier, and looking forward to the promised far larger sum from the sorceress’s order. 

“I haven’t met a sorceress yet.” Jaskier said as they mounted their bikes yet again. “Are they like the healers? Oh, or are they grizzled old warty hags like in the media?” 

“Quite the opposite.” Geralt leaned forward to start his bike up. “Their craft gives them the gift of eternal youth and beauty.” 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, “Where do I sign up?” 

“I would fear for a world inhabited by Dandelion the Great.” 

“I shall be a benevolent ruler.” Jaskier said, gesturing dramatically. “The only one who shall suffer my wrath is Valdo Marx, who shall be struck down with apoplexy and die.” 

“Who’s Valdo Marx?” 

“A story for another day, my dear. For now, we have a rendezvous with a beautiful sorceress.” 

The cottage was not as large and grand as Geralt might have expected of someone who supposedly had no issue tossing money about. It was beautiful and quaint, nestled between a blanket of trees, lush with gardens, flowering vines snaking up the outer walls. Geralt could feel the prickling of magic in the air, however, and instantly knew they were in the right place. They parked their bikes, Geralt grabbed the satchel that held the fiend eye, and they headed up the cobbled walkway. 

The door opened before the pair had even reached the front steps. The orange glow illuminated the figure that appeared in the doorway. A radiantly beautiful woman greeted them with a warm smile, and Jaskier was instantly smitten, eyes gone wide. Her hair flowed down like a river of shining, golden threads, her eyes the deepest olive green, her skin glowing angelically. She wore a long gown that just brushed the tops of her bare feet, flowing like liquid silk in fine pastel blue. 

She clasped her perfectly manicured hands in front of her, eyes crinkling kindly. “Witcher, I have been expecting you.” Her voice was soft and sweet like honey milk. 

“Geralt, you didn’t tell me _angels_ were real too.” Jaskier gushed, unable to rip his eyes away. 

The woman laughed, bestowing her gaze down upon the flustered man at the bottom of the stairs. “And who is this? Could it be the bard I have heard of from the lovely Alisa that trails our dear Witcher?” 

“He’s my...” Geralt stared at Jaskier for a moment, struggling with the word. Although he had difficulty denying even to himself the attachment that he felt growing roots in his heart, ‘friend’ was a dangerous word; dangerous to say aloud, dangerous to admit to himself. A weakness, in the one vulnerable place he had. A frightening crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor, one he was not certain he was yet ready to allow to widen. “Companion.” He finally settled on. “Jaskier.” 

Levana smiled knowingly, then stepped aside, gesturing inside the house. “Please, won’t you both come in?” 

Geralt made his way up the steps, dipping his head in thanks as he passed the sorceress, heading inside the cottage. Jaskier followed behind, nearly stumbling up the stairs in his distraction. He smiled sheepishly when he reached the top, and Levana only laughed kindly as she followed him inside. “How went your hunt? I see you received a token from the battle, but for how dangerous fiends can be, I am surprised not to see more.” 

“It was not my first fiend.” Geralt said, shifting the satchel on his arm. “They are fairly predictable, once you have recognized their patterns.” 

“Oh, but its influence touched your bard, did it not?” Levana frowned concernedly, gently grabbing Jaskier by the chin, looking into his eyes. “It has faded, but I still see the effects in his eyes.” 

Jaskier, seemingly entranced just by the beautiful woman’s fingers on his face, stood up a bit straighter. “Why, it was downright unpleasant! Imagine, your very will stripped from your body as though you were nothing but a stuffing-filled puppet!” He said dramatically, drinking up her attention. “I fear I shall never fully recover!” 

“Oh, you poor, poor thing!” Levana cooed, both hands on his cheeks now. 

Geralt rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. “If you would like to inspect the eye’s condition first...” 

Levana pulled away from Jaskier and stood up straight, “Ah, of course! The busy life of a Witcher.” She smiled kindly. Geralt reached into his satchel and produced the thick-glassed jar, sealed and containing a liquid preservative, the bulbous eye floating within. Levana took it from his hands gingerly, turning it about and examining it from every angle. “As I expected from a Witcher of your caliber, it is in perfect condition.” She beamed up at Geralt. “Your carving is beautifully precise and professional! I entirely believe that this was not your first.” 

“Far from it, yet I still do not know what they are used for.” Geralt admitted. “No potions that I am aware of call for it.” 

"To be honest, I am not aware of any either.” Levana agreed. “Not specifically, anyway. They can be used in any brew that calls for a monster eye, but it is rather a rare ingredient to waste on such things.” 

“Oh?” Jaskier tilted his head curiously. “What will you do with it, then?” 

“Jaskier, don’t be rude.” Geralt growled. “We don’t ask clients their business.” 

“Oh dear, don’t worry, I don’t mind!” Levana laughed, glancing at Jaskier, clasping her hands in front of her. “The truth of it is, I’m a researcher. One of my favorite things to research is rare alchemical ingredients from nature. I’ve never gotten my hands on a fiend eye, so I’m very excited to see if I can be the first to discover what makes it tick!” 

“Charming, beautiful _and_ a scientist?” Jaskier gushed. “My lady, perhaps I ought to write songs about _you_ instead of grouchy old Witchers!” 

“Ahh, so you truly _are_ a bard!” Levana beamed. “I should love to hear your music one day!” 

Jaskier perked up at that, “Oh! My ukulele is right out-” 

“Another time, perhaps.” Geralt cut in. “Unfortunately, we do have other business to attend to.” He shot Jaskier a glare that the man was quite oblivious to. 

“Of course, of course.” Levana dipped her head at that. “Allow me to gather your payment. I hope cash is alright. I’m a rather silly, old-fashioned person, and have yet to invest in one of those... smart phone things.” 

“Cash is just fine.” Geralt agreed. 

Levana fetched an envelope from the other room, and handed it over to the Witcher when they were saying their goodbyes at the door. Geralt curiously peeled it open as they walked down the pathway, and both his and Jaskier’s eyes nearly bugged out when they saw just how many bills were inside. 

“Why, Geralt, I suppose it’s your turn as sugar daddy once again!” 

Jaskier sighed dreamily, face nestled in his hands. The two of them were back out with their bikes; Geralt giving Roach a once-over, while Jaskier sat on his own bike, shooting glances back at the cottage in hopes to catch a glimpse of Levana through the window again. “I wonder if I shall ever see her again.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Most likely not. Best put her out of your mind.” 

“Why, Geralt, I never forget a beautiful face!” 

“Oh, really? Then what was the name of that girl you met in the library last week?” 

“Who, Ellia Atkins? My beautiful and clever research companion?” 

“I suppose that was an easy one. What about the man you flirted with at the convenience store a few weeks ago?” 

“Oh, my lovely, beautiful Shaun. It is a tragedy I never got his number.” Jaskier sighed wistfully. 

“Hm.” Geralt frowned. “Touché, I suppose.” He turned back to checking his bags, ensuring they were closed up and secure. As he went to zip up one of them, he spotted the pistol; a few pine needles stuck to it with sap. It would need cleaning, but that was not what gave him pause. 

“Jaskier.” 

“Eh?” 

Geralt hesitated for a moment, then glanced over. “Does it make you nervous when _I_ have the pistol?” He asked sincerely, studying the man’s face for any sign of the anxiety that had so shaken him earlier. 

“What? Oh, no not at all.” Jaskier simply brushed that off, however, with a bit of a chuckle. He almost seemed surprised, as though that was a ridiculous idea. “Why would I?” 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you?” 

“My dear silly Witcher.” Jaskier leaned back against his bike, smiling up at Geralt. “I could never be afraid of you. I trust you completely.” 

And if Geralt, as someone who has never been trusted so wholly by anyone in his entire life, told anyone that statement didn’t stab him right in the heart, tearing through the final walls that held him back from letting this ball of sunshine in and take up residence there... 

Well, he’d be lying. 

\-- 

Levana breezed through the hallway, gown floating around her as she strode along. In her hands she delicately carried the jar, the ocular organ floating within. She walked past her bookshelves, past her alchemy table. She headed for a door which, from outer appearances, looked to be nothing more than a broom closet. However, as she neared, she whispered a few words before she reached out to open it. A shimmering wall like a mirror was revealed from behind it, shifting crystal, a strange image of a wild garden beyond it. 

Without hesitation, she walked forward, her bare feet stepping through the mirror as though it were made of water. 

The pocket world she entered was the heart of a dark forest. Wild plants, snaking vines and thorny roses spread massive and lush. Moss-covered stones lead up to a sort of gazebo-shaped structure, and Levana carefully ascended the steps. At the center of the structure was a large, stone table engraved with strange sigils, glowing purple. Around the table were a number of shelves lined with jars and dried herbs in a variety of strange colors, shapes and sizes. 

Levana set the jar down carefully at the center of the table, and turned to check the bubbling cauldron beside it. Although it was not necessary here, by habit she stoked the fire underneath. Once satisfied with the condition of the cauldron, she turned back to the table. She reached out the removed the lid of the jar, reaching her hand inside, grasping the third eye of the fiend. 

She held it up, gazing at the dead pupil. She murmured a few words under her breath, and suddenly a red glow slowly began to grow at the center of the eye. It grew in vibrancy, like a heater coming alive. 

Suddenly, she was distracted by movement, and glanced down from the eye, who’s red glow instantly began to fade. The reflection of a mirror that sat on one of the shelves was shifting. She paused, and watched the image take shape, waited for it to coalesce into tangible form. A man, although she could not see his face, stood waiting at a doorstep. His tunic was that of a Knight’s, and embroidered on the back was a coat of arms. 

A red shield, depicting a red rose, alight with flame. 

Levana smashed the mirror in anger. 

**Author's Note:**

> Chill with me on [Tumblr](https://morphiina.tumblr.com/)


End file.
